Dark Days in Aperture Laboratories
by DrDadster
Summary: It's not like Wheatley to argue with Chell. It's not like him to snap or become short tempered with her. Another thing that is not like him is that he does not return from work the next day. / Human AU, twin sibling Wheatley & Chell; ChellDOS, Rick/Wheatley, Mel/Virgil. Co-written with atlaswhite. / Fixed formatting.
1. Work

Wheatley is slumped on the sofa, arms spread out and head tilted back, eyes closed, still dressed in his slacks and the button-down with the Aperture Laboratories logo embroidered on the breast pocket. Ever since he first took the job there as caretaker, he's enjoyed it, enjoyed getting to know the people and taking on work that is so important yet so domestic in nature, and yet lately, he's constantly tired and drained, and on (decreasingly) rare circumstances, has taken on a most uncharacteristic temper. Lately, he's mentioned, a lot more people have been living in the residential area; much more than one caretaker can be reasonably expected to keep up with.

Lately, there's really seemed to be something off about Aperture Laboratories. Especially with the news stories that have mentioned that place.

For his part, yeah, he knows Chell has a problem with the place, but it's not like they're evil or anything.

 _They're evil,_ Chell signs, before realizing that Wheatley's eyes are closed and deciding it was probably a bad idea anyway. She sighs and grabs a blanket, which she tosses over him. She hates what's happening to him. She has to fix it before it can become irreversible, but how?

When he feels the blanket, his eyes half open, startlingly blue for his dark, grey-ish complexion, and he smiles at her, a little lopsided. But then he frowns, and he puts in the effort to make his eyes focus on her. "What's wrong? You've got a look."

Chell shakes her head, and waves a hand towards him dismissively, as if waving off an insect. _It's nothing._

"That's not the look of nothing," Wheatley says, pulling the blanket more snugly about himself. "That's the look of Chell with a very strong opinion. Mind, all your opinions are very strong."

Chell folds her arms and nods proudly. Of course she has strong opinions. And she keeps them, too.

Catching on (more quickly than he would have done with someone who wasn't his twin, but still less quickly than somebody with more sense would have), he tilts his head back and groans. "This about work? That's the look you give me when it's about something I did. Is it work?"

Chell nods, and strides over to Wheatley. She leans over him with a frown. _Of course it's about work._

"Man alive." He drags his hands over his face, looking at her over his fingers. "There isn't a job on Earth that won't wear you a little thin. At least I like the work."

Chell reaches under the blanket and pokes Wheatley in the ribs. She runs her thumb over three of them to drive home her point.

"Hey!" He swats lightly at her hand, and shimmies a little away from her on the sofa. "You know that I have always had trouble keeping on weight."

Chell nods, conceding this much, but is quick to counter, _Yes, but it has never been this bad. What about the anger? The odd hours? Wheatley, something isn't right._

Wheatley pulls the blanket over his face, which is something he never does, because having grown up with a mute person he considers it _"the same as putting my hands over my ears and saying la-la-la-la,"_ in his own words. "I do not have anger issues."

Chell stares, eyes wide, brow furrowed. It is an expression of outrage and disbelief.

At length, after a few very long moments, he lowers the blanket enough to look over it at her. He looks unapologetic. "What, exactly, do you imagine isn't right with Aperture?"

He's not in one of his uncharacteristic tempers, but he's nonetheless in an uncharacteristic mood.

 _I imagine they are working you too hard and it is doing something to your head._ Chell signs frustratedly; her body tense, as if she is torn by fight or flight.

"I'm not gonna deny that they should probably hire some more caretaking staff," Wheatley replies, "but that doesn't make them evil. And nothing is wrong with my head. I swear, lately you're like a hypochondriac, but with me being crazy instead of you being sick."

Chell rolls her eyes. _I didn't say they were evil, and that isn't what a hypochondriac is._

"A hypochondriac is somebody who always things something really awful is wrong with them," he says a little haughtily. "So close enough. Don't worry so much about it. It's just work, and it pays pretty well besides. I doubt I'd get it a whole lot better somewhere else."

 _It's somebody who has a mental illness that makes them diagnose themselves with diseases they don't have._ Chell corrects, not to be deterred. Stubborn, stubborn. _Wheatley, it is not just work if it's making you act differently!_

He lets the hypochondriac issue drop, because he has long since learned not to argue small points with his sister. However, this, in his opinion, is not a small point. "I am not acting differently. In what way am I acting differently?"

 _You are aggressive, and you aren't sleeping, and you act skittish._ Chell lists off. _Even now you're acting skittish. And you're so defensive! What about Aperture do you care so much for?_

"I am _not_ aggressive, and for your information, I'm not skittish either," Wheatley says, the words actually stepping on the end of her signs as he says them. "I just don't understand why you've taken such an issue with my job all of a sudden, I've had it for ages."

His tone of voice is not really doing much for the _not aggressive_ argument.

Chell purses her lips and furrows her brow. _It's because you weren't always skittish and aggressive like this. The way you're talking is hostile. You were never like this before._ Her hands are moving fast, like she can't slow down or she would risk running out of steam.

"I am _fine,"_ Wheatley snaps, pushing the blanket off as he reaches the end of whatever patience he'd brought home with him. It suddenly almost feels like he wants her to pick a fight with him. "Honestly! What is the malfunction here? I can take care of myself, you know?"

 _I know that,_ Chell signs, but even she can see that she isn't about to win this one. It's so frustrating; as if to lose this argument is to lose another piece of Wheatley, to watch him drift just a little further away, and she knows she's helpless to stop it. _I just want you to be healthy because I love you and I am worried about you._

Her non-aggressive approach softens him a bit, although it doesn't take the edge from his voice. "I love you too. You can be a right pain in the ass sometimes, though, you know. Stop worrying about problems that aren't problems and go get some sleep, you hypochondriac."

Chell frowns again. Her expression is dark, and she turns it away from Wheatley. She doesn't like this at all. This isn't like him. None of this is right and she just can't figure out how to fix it.

She would argue all night, so she forces herself to go to bed.

Wheatley is not good at fighting. It's not a thing he likes to do, and under regular circumstances, the last thing he would ever do would be to pick a fight with Chell. Not only because he loves her, but also because he's a little afraid of her and knows he would never actually win. It's not like him to argue with her. It's not like him to snap or become short tempered with her.

Another thing that is not like him is that he does not return from work the next day.

Chell waits up for him. She waits up until it gets late and she should go to bed again. She keeps checking her phone. She keeps feeling like something is wrong. All day long she can't shake this feeling. And then nothing happens.

Nothing continues to happen all through the night, and into the next morning. Despite his recent keeping of odd hours, he's never done an extended shift without at least giving her a text to let her know. And he's definitely never disappeared all night without so much as a call.

Chell is worried. No, Chell is scared. She has sent Wheatley text after text and they have all gone unanswered. She sends one more text, this one to her school, and then she waits a little longer at home, and then she leaves.

* * *

The flat they live in is very much a home. Though not especially big, it has two bedrooms, and enough room for both of them as long as they don't mind their space overlapping, which (as not just twins, but twins without parents) they never really have. The line of which possessions are whose is a little bit blurred, outside of respective phones and Chell's books for school, and there's often just a little bit of clutter about— not enough to call a mess, but enough to show that it's lived in.

Even from the outside, it's obvious that Aperture Laboratories is nothing like that. The building looks clean, smooth, and compartmentalized, impersonal less in the way of business and more in the way of shooting a stranger in the head. It's deceptively small, but still bigger than their apartment, and Wheatley has told her about how it extends underground.

Chell is not sure how to approach this sinister building, or what she is to do once she has done it. She supposes she should ask for Wheatley.

She takes her phone from her pocket and she opens her speaking app. Too bad it can't give her the words to say.

There is an entrance that seems to be the public entrance, at least in a manner of speaking; the whole building gives off the vibe of by-appointment-only. It opens into a reception area that is pretty wide, with two or three dozen chairs, a nice carpet that muffles her footsteps, a high ceiling that makes the room seem larger than it is. To one side is a reception desk behind a glass window, the kind with a little sliding door at the bottom for the exchanging of papers or money, and at the back of the room is the sort of thick, locked door that you have to have a badge to get through. The kind of badge Wheatley has, but she doesn't. There isn't a single human being in sight, but there is a buzzer by the desk, watched over by two security cameras in opposing corners of the room.

Chell approaches the buzzer. She feels suddenly meek, in a crippling, uncharacteristic way. She does not know what's about to happen, but she does know that things will change drastically once she presses it.

It is a slow process, working up to it. It has a very sudden payoff when her finger hits the button.

The contact is announced by a buzzer so loud that it seems to fill the whole room, and the fact that there's not much going on up here only makes it seem louder. Behind the counter, on the back wall, a bright light comes on, illuminating a metal sign in the shape of the Aperture Laboratories logo, just the same as the one on Wheatley's work shirts. Just behind the glass barrier, an intercom lights up as well, but at first, the reward includes no suggestion of actual human life coming to tend to her inquiry.

Finally, what sounds like a prerecorded message comes from behind the counter.

"Welcome, future pioneer of science. If you're here for a test, then someone should be manning the counter, and you shouldn't be hearing this, so if you are, let me know who they are when they get back so I can fire them. Otherwise, you probably shouldn't be here. If it's important, press that red button a second time and someone will be with you shortly."

Chell is taken aback by the display and startled by the voice, which causes her to gasp softly. She was not sure what she expected, but it certainly was not this. When the voice bids her to, she unhesitatingly presses the button a second time.

The intercom beeps softly, and the same pre-recorded voice requests she wait a moment, have a seat. There is another long pause. The prerecorded message clears his throat. Finally there are a pair of clicks, and a different voice comes through from the other side. "Aperture Laboratories."

This one isn't a recorded message.

Another surprise, smaller than the first. Fortunately, Chell is prepared. She wakes her phone and types out her message, and a moment later it reads out mechanically; "Hello. I am looking for a caretaker. Wheatley."

There is a little bit of surprise on the part of the person on the other end. Maybe it's just the intercom connection, but her voice sounds a little too high and robotic, somehow. "Wheatley? That moron? He probably overdosed in a bathroom stall somewhere. Who's calling?"

Chell feels the blood rush to her ears, making her hearing muted and nearly causing her to faint. She can not have heard that correctly. The ground crumbles beneath her feet and leaves her floating in impotence.

Her fingers trembling slightly, she has the phone intone, "Overdose. No. Wheatley. The Caretaker. I need to see him. Where is he."

There is a soft, slightly impatient sigh from the other end of the intercom. "I heard you the first time. Look, this is a highly secured facility. Unless you can tell me who you are and what you're here for, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Chell frowns. She wants to fight but there is nothing to fight with. She just wants her brother back. "I am Wheatley's sister. Chell. I'm here for Wheatley." the computerized voice states.

"Oh." This is a sound of a little more surprise. A long, stalling moment passes. "Nobody by that name works here. Or has ever worked here. Kindly see yourself out."

Chell snarls. Her fingers tap audibly against the phone, which is jostled by the force of her terrified hands. "You recognized the name Wheatley immediately. What is going on here. Give him to me. Now." The tiny computerized voice is woefully insufficient to convey her anger or urgency. It's actually very monotone, and sounds like the voice they give those helper AIs on phones.

"I thought you said... another name that wasn't Wheatley. Westley, maybe. Sure. Anyways, even if he was here, which he isn't, I couldn't just give him to you, because everyone in this facility is currently at work and is therefore busy." The woman says, pretty unconvincingly. (She finds the gentle tone of the voice up on the lobby curious, given the angry words coming out of it, but she doesn't say anything about it.) "Including me. Now, if that's all..."

Chell is gritting her teeth. She wants to punch the speaker and whoever is saying the words coming out of it. What an obvious and flimsy lie!

"I won't be dismissed. If you won't let Wheatley out you will let me in."

"I will not let you in," the voice says, her irritation growing. "This facility is accessible by staff and authorized guests only. I'm sure he will be back before you know it. He probably just got distracted feeding squirrels, or shooting up. Why don't you go home?"

Chell taps rapidly on her phone, her anger at a maintained high. "That's the second time you've referenced drugs. When did Wheatley start taking drugs. Is this something the company did."

"Look, if your brother is doing drugs, that's sad, but it's not my problem. Is there anything else?" The voice asks, clipped, clearly looking to bring this conversation to an end.

Tap, tap, tap. "You're really bad at this."

"Bad at what?" Her voice is flat. She isn't even bothering with faux innocence. "Look, you clearly have nothing important to say, so I'll just let you off the line to go look for some addict somewhere else. Thanks for visiting Aperture Laboratories."

"He is not some addict he is Wheatley the Caretaker at Aperture Laboratories and your careless circular talk isn't going to deter me." Chell's phone intones, one long sentence not remotely as angry as she is. Who the hell does this woman think she is to insult Wheatley and try to keep him from her? She has no idea what she's dealing with. Not who. _What._

The intercom clicks and the light on it turns off. Whoever is on the other end doesn't care what she's dealing with. She's done dealing with it.

Chell puts her phone away, calmly. She wishes she could reach the intercom from here, but she can't, so she punches the shield instead, which of course only hurts her fist and does nothing to the glass, which of course makes her even angrier.

Once she's done shaking her open hand and making hissing sounds, she looks for another way in.

There is a door into the booth with the intercom, but it's locked. Inside the booth itself are two more doors, and then there's the one at the back of the room with the little panel where you scan a badge to get in. There's a vent, too small for a person, in a high corner. There might also be another way from the outside of the building. Chell goes outside to check around there. She is alert and scanning, because she's sure she's being observed even now.

There are cameras. There's an entrance to an underground parking garage, but that's gated, too. There's another door or two, all securely locked. The building seems way too high-security for somebody as easygoing as Wheatley to work at, although he's described it to her before.

Chell keeps on looking. This is deeply unsettling; how much more did she not know about Wheatley? How much could she never have guessed about Aperture Laboratories? This is like a scene out of a thriller and yet here she is, living it out. A nightmare she can't seem to wake up from. She pinches herself while she walks, just in case.

What exactly do they _do,_ down there? Wheatley has spoken a little about it, here and there, but not enough for her to get a clear picture, especially now, seeing the building as she is, easily twice as horrible as he'd ever described it.

Someone is probably going to approach her if she doesn't find a damn entrance soon. Chell feels a twinge of anxiety as she continues making her way around the premises.

Still nothing. But it isn't a person that interrupts her— it's a prerecorded message. "Hey, you! Yes, you, the person loitering in the parking lot. This is not public property. If you have an appointment, please check in at the lobby. Otherwise, get lost."

It comes out of a loudspeaker on the side of the building, and its sudden loud blaring startles Chell, who stumbles. Is there a timer or something on there? She isn't in the parking lot, per se. It's bizarre, sharp and disorienting.

It takes a moment before she recovers and continues on her way around the building, determined to circle it until she reaches the front lobby again, vigilant in her search for an entrance, any entrance at all.

She comes to another door that opens into a tiny elevator lobby, but this one requires an employee badge too. It seems they're serious about the employees and guests only policy. But there's nobody around for her to be the guest of. The door is a double door, the same kind of glass as the shield around the receptionist's desk in the lobby. There's a narrow space between the doors where they meet, as well as some cracks in the lower corner of one. The panel has a tiny red light on it, and a groove where a keycard can be inserted. There are four lifts on the other side, each with different numbers on the panel beside. One is out of order, as announced by a sign with red letters.

First, she checks the cracked one. She pushes on the glass to see how bad off it is, wondering as she does if this is going to set off an alarm. It's not bad enough that pushing on it would do much, although it does dislodge a little shard. A good old fashioned donkey kick might get through, or it might not. It's hard to tell whether there is an alarm; there is a camera, but it seems to be looking towards the elevators, and not moving. Possibly, it's also out of order.

What's there for it? Chell checks the space between the doors with her finger first, just to make sure she isn't going for the more extreme path when a gentler one would suffice. She finds that there's enough space for her to wiggle up to the first joint of her fingers, but no more than that. She could probably do something with the lock in there, if she had something to reach it with; the doors rattle, but hold against her.

She does not know how to pick a lock, and this place is too tidy and featureless to have tools lingering about. She briefly considers going home and coming back with tools under the cover of darkness, but every moment she wastes is a moment Wheatley may not have to spare, so she stands upright, draws on her frustration with the woman on the intercom, and kicks the cracked glass.

The crack gets bigger under the pressure. The pane does not break all the way, but another kick might do the trick. As long as an alarm isn't sounding, she's good to go. Chell kicks it again, harder and angrier. Telling her Wheatley isn't here! Mocking him! Making light of the fact that, _apparently,_ he's on drugs and Chell never even knew about it!

The crack deepens, widens, buckling the glass on the inside. How long has he been on drugs? Does he know he is, or is this some sick thing the company is doing? Did the voice on the intercom really thing she would buy that nobody by that name even works here?

Chell channels every question into a kick. Kick after kick after kick, unrelenting.

Finally the glass gives, shattering with a powerful force into the room and all over the floor. She wastes no time in ducking through it, and hurrying to one of the elevators in the hopes of getting inside before someone notices what she's done.

The farthest elevator to the right has a little sign below the numbers that reads _"Residential - Relaxation,"_ which sounds like exactly what she needs. This elevator is the one with the Out of Order sign. The other three, from left to right, each have their own text below the numbers: _"Main Elevator C - Primary Testing Tracks;" "Secondary Testing - Maintainence Access;"_ and _"DO NOT USE."_

Chell pauses only long enough to read the labels, the fear of being caught in the lobby too great for her to linger. In a split-second decision, to the Maintenance Access elevator and takes it.

The doors of the elevator open and close smoothly for her, allowing her the privacy of the unobserved interior, a simple box with a sleek white floor. There are two sets of doors, one attached to the wall and one attached to the elevator itself; the walls are glass panels, but it is blocked from view of the lobby by the exterior doors. There are up and down buttons, a numerical pad, and a keycard slot on a panel on the side of it. Fortunately, when she pushes the button to descend, it does not demand anything more of her, but agreeably begins to sink down below.

Chell folds her arms and waits impatiently for the elevator to reach its destination. Her mind is entirely on Wheatley. Where is he? What's happened to him? Why would the woman over the intercom lie about it all?

The elevator spends a few minutes descending; it treats her to views of underground architecture, to hints of what must be science going on out there, tubes and cables and all sorts of bizarre things. It comes to a stop, finally, with a gentle whoosh, and the doors open to reveal a hallway stretching forth into a sort of hub; halls going this way and that, another pair of elevators, a few stairwells, some doors. It would be fair to say they've tried to embrace an open design; the ceiling and walls stretch out, many of them glass, some of them only half-height in a modest boast about the vast facility around them. Nobody is near the elevator, but people are moving around up ahead.

Chell ventures forth at once, looking purposeful instead of as lost as she feels. She checks the walls for signs, hoping that she can get a clue as to where maintenance is and how it might connect to the care facility, or whatever the formal title for Wheatley's workstation is. Also, a change of clothes seems like a good idea.

A couple people notice her, but nobody pays her a second mind, at least not yet. There are many signs on the walls; posters encouraging workplace safety, among... other things. Every single hallway and staircase and door is labelled, some more helpfully than others. _Authorized personnel only!_ covers half a wall. There's a door labelled orientation, a hallway with a directional arrow indicating Secondary Test Tracks, which are both very informative, and two staircases labelled C500 and C501, which are not. Pictographs seem to be fairly popular down here: there's a box with a heart on it, what looks like a jumpsuit with an X over it, a locker and bag, a warning triangle, some kind of strange tube with legs and an eye... if it can be a symbol, then it's been printed on the wall just inside an opening to another path. It's like Wonderland.

Uncertain what to do and finding no sign of the maintenance or anything remotely to do with her brother, Chell continues walking purposefully down halls and through doorways. Anywhere that doesn't have a lead door or a card slot. She has no idea where she's going, but that doesn't matter! Sooner or later she's got to come up with something. Hopefully starting with an open locker or closet for those clothes.

Every single door and opening seems to be locked, but this time, luck is on her side. Fittingly enough, down the hall marked by the symbol of a locker and bag, there is a locker room, and the door is not shut all the way, rendering the pin-pad lock pointless. It's abandoned now, because it's just not the time of day that people are starting their work days. It shouldn't be hard to find something in here.

Chell tries not to hurry as she ducks inside, but then she is all movement, quick and bustling looking for something with the Aperture logo on it.

It isn't hard— it seems like everything has the Aperture logo on it, even many of the personal effects. The clothes, the bags, the walls, the lockers. It's even quite possible that she can find a key card in here. There are jackets, a couple of jumpsuits, even a labcoat, although it's obviously a little far from its proper place inside the facility.

She selects a jumpsuit that looks to be about her size, maybe a bit large. She dresses quickly and shoves her old clothes into a locker, stopping only to remove the phone from the pants pocket. They are no longer needed. Then it's time to return to the halls, and hurry.

As many signs as there are, nothing conveniently says "residential" or "caretaker" or "this way to Wheatley." She can go up, down, stay on the same level, or ask someone for directions to the residential area. Down seems to lead to testing areas; this level is mostly metal and catwalks and office blocks; up, it's hard to tell.

She decides to try asking somebody, because she's been walking in circles for a while and this is getting pretty old.

There's a figure that sticks out more than anybody else- an unrealistically white- haired woman, visible only from behind, who sticks out too much to be a good choice to ask. She's definitely someone important. Even from behind, she gives off an air of not only being flawless, but of being completely and unerringly aware of being flawless.

Before Chell can even decide who to approach, however, she's intercepted by an address that sounds like a prerecorded message at first. Mostly because it's exactly the same voice as those messages, in exactly the same tone. "You there. Yeah, you, the one in the jumpsuit."

As if half the people down here aren't wearing jumpsuits.

Regardless, Chell stops. She turns to look at the man addressing her with an air of surprise, not even the remotest idea what she's in for.

"Yeah, you." The man belonging to the voice has angular features, fierce sideburns, a brown suit, and a voice that makes everyone in the immediate vicinity either flinch or roll their eyes. The white woman turns to look at him. He only looks at Chell. "What exactly are you doing? You just came out into the hallway and started looking lost."

Chell hesitates, going full deer in headlights for a moment. Then at last she comes to her senses, gets out her phone and has it read out, "I'm a new hire. I wasn't sure where I'm meant to be."

The white woman turns to Chell in sudden, undisguised interest. Her face is inhumanly beautiful— both in that she's too beautiful to be human, and in that she clearly isn't. One eye is hidden by her hair, and the other is a bright, vaguely glowing gold; well-hidden but visible joints and rivets speak to something that could be extremely good costume makeup, if only they were anywhere else. She speaks, not the man, and he seems a little surprised by her interjection, but doesn't contest it. "What did you say your name was?"

For a moment, Chell is struck by her beauty. Words fail her to describe the perfection of this woman, regardless of the fact that clearly she is not human. Surely she must have been carefully designed by the most careful hands in the world to surpass any mortal woman?

The moment is shattered the instant Chell hears the woman speak, and then all the blood drains out of her. Oh. Oh dear. Could she lie her way out of this? Probably not. She swallows.

"I said I am a new hire." the phone intones.

The perfect woman takes a perfect step forward, the movement flowing with the grace of water. Her chin lifts slightly, her golden lips set in the slightest frown. The man in the suit gives the floor to her. Is she the person in charge? If so, why was she answering the phone at the front desk? "Oh, silly me. What is your name?"

There is no escaping the terrible intent of this immeasurably beautiful woman's slight frown. Trapped in the question, Chell can only type her reply in her phone, and listen as it confesses her truth, "Chell."

"Chell." The woman assesses Chell for a very long moment, gleaming eye cold and appraising. "Are you looking for something down here?"

"Caroline, is there a particular reason we're wasting time with this nobody in maintenance?" The man interjects. He does not talk to her like he is talking to his superior. Quite the contrary, his words demand an immediate answer.

The woman gives him one, although her eyes narrow as he says her name. "Oh... I believe I know her. That's all. She has a very distinctive little... voice."

Chell feels her ears heat up. She swipes her thumb across the screen, quite trapped in between the white woman's cruel appraisal and the man's demeaning attitude. "Work."

"Right." Another long, appraising moment, during which both of them watch Chell. It almost feels the woman is deciding Chell's fate in her head. "What's your job function? Are you the new caretaker?"

Chell is beginning to feel like the two of them might devour her, and she would be helpless to stop it from happening. She glances at her phone, and then up at the woman, and then back at her phone. "Yes."

"What? I never authorized any new caretaking staff. Matter of fact, I distinctly remember vetoing that idea," says the man, looking at Caroline. She lifts her chin, eye gleaming with malice.

"Exactly," she says to him, and an expression of recognition appears on his face.

He looks down at Chell. He's extremely tall, and it makes the towering effect even greater. "How did you get down here?"

Chell is not about to back down, even though she is afraid. Her finger moves blinding fast across the screen, and then she looks up at the man while her phone speaks. "I was let in when I was hired of course. I must have gotten the wrong department. Your assistant is very intimidating sir. Can you tell me where I am supposed to be?"

"Intimidating? _Caroline?_ Maybe a little, but don't let her scare you. That's my job," the man says, puffing out his chest. "And I have no idea where you're supposed to be. I own this place; I work on a greater scale than that. But I like your balls."

Caroline's bared teeth suggest that it would be a bad decision not to allow her to scare you, but she defers to him. "If you're looking for orientation, you're about four hours late."

"True," he observes with a nod. "I would probably have to fire you for that."

"Mr. Johnson, you already have so much on your agenda," says Caroline in an approximation of sweetness (not a very good approximation). "Why don't you just let me deal with this... interruption?"

Chell looks apologetic, but puts on her sweetest expression, too, hoping to impress her new boss's boss. She is much better at it than Caroline. "Thank you, Mr. Johnson," her phone reads out. "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you; it's an honour to meet a true pioneer in science."

She looks to Caroline next, too smart to ignore her in favour of schmoozing (she couldn't if she tried anyway). "I apologize for putting you out."

Caroline tosses her head, unimpressed, but the platitudes absolutely land their mark on Mr. Johnson, who positively swells with pride and ego. She has made a good impression on him. "It's always good to meet a fan. Tell you what, you thought you were supposed to be caretaking? Then our head caretaker will probably know where you belong. Probably part of the cleaning staff."

The words make Caroline scowl, not only because of the way it's all working out for Chell, but also because that logic is incredibly faulty. "I'm sure he's... busy, at the moment. He tends to be holed up around this time of day. Why don't we just go to one of the overseer offices and look her up in the computer?"

Chell perks right up at the mention of the head caretaker. "Thank you, I would love to speak to the head caretaker, Mr. Johnson," her phone says, almost with some semblance of perkiness. It doesn't match the light in her eyes. "You are too generous. I won't disappoint you."

"See that you don't," Mr. Johnson says matter-of-factly, as if it's a given that anybody working for him should know better than to disappoint him. Still, she's made a unique impression on him, and there's no doubt that for however long she's down here, he's going to pay attention. "Come on; Caroline and I happened to be heading that way on our little walk, didn't we?"

Caroline positively grinds her teeth. "Yes, sir, Mr. Johnson."

Feeling hopeful, Chell falls right in step beside Mr. Johnson. He is so imposing in person! It might just be his presence, but it is one hell of an intimidating presence, to be sure. He and Caroline both inspire Chell to walk with a straight back and a perfectly forward-facing gaze, her jaw locked and her heart beating a little faster; even the hairs on her arm standing at attention.

And these are the people Wheatley works for? No wonder he's so on edge about them. Chell takes an immediate dislike to the both of them, and can only aspire to get back to him and away from them as fast as possible.

Caroline gives Chell a fierce look, and moves to walk on Mr. Johnson's opposite side. She makes her intimidating stride look effortless, the clicks of her heels on the floor as snaps of warning. As much as Chell dislikes her, the feeling is clearly mutual. She'd be perfectly happy to walk in dead silence; unfortunately, Mr. Johnson seems to be a conversationalist.

"So you're new here," he observes to Chell with his commanding voice. He is not as tall as Wheatley— nobody ever is —but he is taller than Chell, and has a powerful presence. "What brought you to work at Aperture?"

Chell looks down at her phone to type. "I want to help further science." she feels is the correct answer, following the pattern. She isn't sure she should mention Wheatley to him, given the way Caroline reacted (and is continuing to react).

It is, in fact, the correct answer. Mr. Johnson beams. "Well, then, you definitely came to the right place. There is no finer facility in the world— and I'm not just saying that because I built it."

"Are you sure that's the only reason you came here?" Caroline asks flatly.

Chell swallows and shakes her head. She isn't sure how long buttering up Mr. Johnson can keep Caroline at bay, but she's got to keep saying what she's saying if she's going to have a chance at reaching Wheatley. Whatever has gone so wrong, she has to find him and know for herself. She has to get him out of here.

"No, you're not sure?" Caroline asks, her golden gaze seeming to dig right in to Chell.

"Caroline, would you care to tell me what exactly is going on between you and this young lady?" Mr. Johnson asks, finally looking down to his assistant.

Chell tenses up. She doesn't want Caroline to tell him about Wheatley; heaven only knows what will happen if she does, if he believes her even just enough to question Chell about it. Quickly, the young woman has the phone ask, "Mr. Johnson, what inspired you to found Aperture Science?"

His attention returns to her, surprised but impressed by her words. "Well, that is a very interesting question, young lady! And one with an appropriately interesting answer. It all started a long time ago— quite probably before you were born, as I'm a little older than I look..."

Caroline clenches her fists, but says nothing else about it. Chell has found the perfect conversation starter to keep Mr. Johnson talking for at least a few minutes, by which time they're sure to have already found Wheatley.

It comes to Chell as a huge relief. She half-listens to Mr. Johnson as he rambles about Aperture and his personal history and all these things she does not actually care about, but which fill the air and keep him from questioning her or Caroline about why she is really here.

It isn't far that they have to go, either. Seemingly before Mr. Johnson has realized it, they've come to an entirely different segment of the facility. "This is it, the caretaker's office. Didn't mean to talk your ear off!"

He laughs. Caroline is giving Chell a look that indicates she's coming for her.

Chell is a little worried about this. Caroline gives the impression of someone who is dangerous even when you manage to keep in her good graces, and here she's basically flipped her off. Hopefully she isn't going to have to deal with the consequences of this just yet.

"Thank you, Mr. Johnson! It was really informative."

"Just don't get too used to it," he says, but he's clearly pleased, and not at all apologetic for all the talking he's done. He reaches out and takes the doorknob in his hand. "If he's not in here, you can just sit down and wait for him to get back."

He pushes the door open, and steps inside ahead of Chell.

Chell swallows, and tries to be ready for whatever will greet her as she follows him in.

The room is a slightly messy one, peculiarly less tidy than he is at home. There's a desk, computer, filing cabinet, countless papers— all the usual things one would expect to find in an office, except the person who uses it. It's empty.

"He must be working," Caroline observes stiffly, sounding a little disappointed. "Too bad. I had hoped for a word."

Chell feels her stomach drop. She checks the top papers, as surreptitiously as she can, and has a look around.

"That's alright," says Mr. Johnson, clapping Chell briefly on the shoulder. "Sit down and make yourself comfortable, I'm sure he'll be around sooner or later. Unfortunately, Caroline and I have places to be."

Chell nods, putting together a cheesy smile for Mr. Johnson that she sure doesn't feel. She sits down as bid as soon as he's stepped away from her, and waves good-bye after him and Caroline.

Caroline lingers at the door after Mr. Johnson has gone through it. "This isn't over," she hisses almost inaudibly, and the door shuts behind her with an unnervingly final sound.

Chell shudders as the door swings shut. She feels a chill, like she's just made the most powerful enemy in the world. But what alternative was there? The woman had it out for her as soon as she challenged her lies about Wheatley.

Well, that's neither here nor there. Chell begins to investigate the papers.

Looks like a little bit of everything. Company paraphernalia, calendars, forms of all kinds, letters from "residents". It all seems to have to do with his work, and it all seems like the kind of work he's always said it was. A lot of them are notes or notebooks or sticky memos. Some of it is more difficult to understand than others, though; some of it is as straightforward as _relaxation vault 18 air vent issue_ with all the related details scrawled in his quick, loose handwriting below. But then there's more cryptic little notes. Stuff like times or dates without context. Stuff like _ask rick about testing initiative. take answer with grain of salt._

How strange... Chell wonders what the notes mean. Clearly, these have nothing to do with his disappearance, but something else here might, if only she can find it. She has to work quickly, though; the last thing she wants is for Caroline to get away from Mr. Johnson long enough to double back here and catch her snooping.

Not much pops immediately as potential evidence. A cup of coffee is on the desk, still somewhat warm. He's been in here. The computer is on, but locked with a password. There's also a couple of syringes in the garbage can; they might have been obtained from any of the labs down here. No effort has been made to conceal them from view.

The coffee is a good sign, at least. As with Mr. Johnson's apparent belief that Wheatley should be at hand, it gives hope that he is still here, still close. Chell gingerly picks up one of the syringes and looks it over before tossing it back. He is handing in his resignation as soon as she finds him!

She checks the computer and tries a password. If he is close at hand, though, what is he doing? Just... working? Normally? As if he hasn't been worrying her sick, hasn't just apparently up and decided not to go home?

Wheatley's password, of course, is easy to guess, for somebody that's been living with him his whole life. He's never been one to get too creative, there. It lets her in on the third try, with a warning about how she's going to lock herself out, to a tidy desktop lined with icons for work programs, half of which are variations on the Aperture logo. The wallpaper is a field of wheat— he's always liked the aesthetic of those, in a slightly vain way.

There is the sound of someone coming near the door.


	2. Oxygen

Chell gives the hint of a smile when the third password works and she's greeted by the wheat and potential for clues. But when she hears the noise, she immediately switches off the monitor and quickly goes for a place to hide.

There's the sound of a hand on the doorknob, and a particularly angry voice, muffled by the door. It sounds like Wheatley, but it also sounds like he's not at all alone and in the place for a conversation. "—really don't know what you're expecting of me, then, lady! Yes, yes, I heard you. Yes ma'am. —Wait, what? Why? What's _that_ got to do with anything?"

The door is opening, and she's given only a moment to hide. There's a space to one side of the filing cabinet that's concealed in the corner, or she could duck under the desk; there's really not a lot of options.

She chooses the filing cabinet, tucking herself into the cramped space while feeling like a cat with its ears erect at the sound of a familiar voice. She conceals herself to the best of her ability in spite of the orange jumpsuit, her heart beating fast. Who is he talking to?

The door actually remains half open; his tall, sturdy, familiar form can be seen half inside the room, looking back over his shoulder, face turned away from her. "Yes, and I'm sure... What the hell is that supposed to mean? —Look, sounds like Mr. Johnson's after you, love, why don't you come by and see me later? I'll apparently be here forever and ever for the rest of my natural life. That was facetious! I have no intention of being here— Wait, I'm not a part of that initiative, what are you— oh, yes, absolutely, just walk away. Very mature of you."

He enters the room, shuts the door unnecessarily hard behind himself, and leans against it with an audible groan, wiping his hands over his face. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows (come to think of it, he never wears his shirts like that at home anymore), and his forearms look almost... bruised.

It's really him! He's here! He's all right!

Chell slides out from her hiding spot and moves fluidly straight over to Wheatley. She is so relieved to see him that she could hug him and just cry for a while, but she's so conflicted that she winds up only coming to a stop before him, a concerned frown on her face.

His hands slide down off his face, and he looks down, and suddenly his sister is in front of him. He jumps, just barely holding in a scream, which makes its way out as a choked sound of alarm instead. "Chell?"

Chell nods heartily at him. _You didn't come home_ , she signs urgently. She looks torn on the idea of leaping at him and hugging him after all. Her eyes are big and full, conflicted and bright with emotions; fearful and angry and relieved.

He beats her to it; he steps forward and throws his arms around her, pulling her against himself in a tight embrace. He's full of questions, but the relief of having her here in front of them outweighs them all. It doesn't stop him from babbling a little, though. "Man alive, it's so good to see you— but how— why? Where did you get that jumpsuit?"

She doesn't answer right away, too busy returning his hug in kind, holding on tight and bunching her hands in his shirt like she might never let go. She doesn't want to; she feels like she never would. She buries her face in his chest and leaves it there.

"Not that it doesn't look good on you— no, let's be honest, those jumpsuits look awful on everyone," he says, leaning back slightly to account for her weight. He doesn't want to let go, either; he wants to wake up and have this all be a dream. "You shouldn't be here, you can't be down here."

Chell shakes her head against his shirt. She still can't say anything; her hands are entirely occupied. But she trusts that Wheatley understands why she isn't answering and what she really means by it.

"Oh, love..." His grip tightens a little bit. He does get it. "I have no idea how long I've been down here. Gets, gets a bit hazy, time does. I have no idea where my phone even is, and it's probably dead anyway."

Chell frowns, tugs back a little to look at him. Does he mean to say that he just didn't know he'd been down here for two days and one night? She stares at him in an attempt to communicate this question to him.

"No, no! I mean, I know I've been down here a lot longer than I'm supposed to have been. My shift was meant to have ended hours ago. I just don't know how many," he explains, keen not to have her think that he just wandered off and forgot to go home.

Chell looks distressed. Her brows knit, and she presses her lips together for a moment and shakes her head. At least he didn't just hang out down here because of the drugs she didn't know he was using. But hours? _It's been a lot more than hours_ , she signs.

"What? Days, is what you're saying?" No, he seems to think, that _can't_ be right. He can't have been down here that long. His disbelief and alarm show on his face. "—I don't think I've slept once."

Chell nods rapidly. More than distressed, she's come onto the border of desperate. How can he not know that? What kind of poison is he _taking_?

Naturally, Wheatley can't doubt Chell, so he just assumes she's telling him the truth. "Man alive, no wonder I feel so jittery. But still— I can't believe you came all the way down here."

She nods harder and then squares her shoulders, affecting a proud, stern expression. She has worked hard and done very risky things to follow him, and she takes pride in this. She thinks it's obvious. Of _course_ she would come all the way down here, and further, for him.

"I know, I know. You have always been the brave one." He kisses the top of her head. "But look at me! I'm fine. Completely fine. You shouldn't be down here, you could get in a lot of trouble, you know."

She bites her lip. She finally takes one of her hands so that she can gesture at the jumpsuit she's wearing. Then she points first at him, then up at the ceiling.

"I'm... uh. Well, I'm not actually sure about that, is the thing. Not to alarm you," he says, taking one arm back to rub the back of his head awkwardly. "I'm not sure that I technically have the, ah, clearance to go topside right now."

Chell blinks, furrows her brow, and tilts her head to one side. A very concerned frown.

"But! That doesn't matter," he says, quickly, to reassure her. "Just a, ah, misunderstanding, I'm sure. Needed me for a few things. Down here."

Chell manages to look even more concerned, shaking her head vigorously.

"Sure! Just... forget about it, right? Hey, we need to get you back out of here, you don't belong here," he says, trying to change the subject.

Chell shakes her head again, puts her arm back around Wheatley and clings fiercely to him to get her point across.

"Now you're just being stubborn, love," he says, but he hugs her again anyway, and his body language conveys how relieved he actually is to have her here. "It's not like I'm being... held here against my will. ...Okay, that is kind of what I just described, but I promise, it's not all like that!"

Chell takes her hand away again to point at Wheatley's forearm, frowning pointedly at him. She _is_ being stubborn, and she is not about to leave him to be held against his will, even, or especially if it's 'not all like that.'

"What?" He says, looking at his arm where she points, and then he sees the exposed tracks, and his cheeks darken. Up close, it is highly apparent that they are more than just regular bruises, and even he knows it. Hurriedly, he tugs his sleeves down. "Just, uh... uhm."

Chell taps his arm firmly, not enough to hurt. She gives Wheatley a sharp look; she knows, and she wants answers, and most of all she wants him to acknowledge that he is wrong.

"What? What about my arm?" He asks, pretending not to understand what she's talking about. He feels cornered, and he privately knows he's wrong, on some level, but he won't admit it to himself, and therefore can't admit it to her, either.

Finally she withdraws her other arm and steps back, putting a pace between them. _You've been taking drugs_ , she signs.

"Drugs? Me?" Wheatley asks, not at all convincingly. His face is even hotter now, though he can't really define the emotions he's feeling. "What? No... what honestly gave you that idea?"

Chell goes over to the trash can and fearlessly grabs several syringes out of it. These she presents to Wheatley, shoving them towards him with a severe expression.

His cheeks are even hotter now, a tingling sensation that makes him want to turn away from her in shame. He lifts his hands, partially in self defense, and partially with the intent of taking the syringes from her. "Don't grab those like that, love, they're not clean. You nick yourself, you could get infected. Or worse."

Chell presses her lips together and wrinkles her nose like an angry canine. She knows, but she had to prove a point. She can take a risk like that if it will get what she needs to across to him.

Gingerly, Wheatley takes the syringes from her, and reaches over to deposit them back in the trash where they belong. "You know that drugs aren't the only thing you use those for, don't you?"

Chell's eyes flash. _I know you aren't about to try and tell me you're diabetic or something_ , she signs rapidly, and gives a snort for good measure.

"Of course not," he says, wiping his hand on his shirt, despite the fact that there's not really anything to clean off. "It's just— you know, big ol' science facility like this, they're not an uncommon sight, syringes. Anyway, you know I hate shots."

 _I know you do_ , Chell signs, getting more incensed by the second. _I also know you've been taking drugs. Even Caroline said so. Don't try to deny it._ She spells out Caroline's name.

"Caroline?" He says, sounding more than a bit surprised and taken aback by her brazen use of the name. "You met GLaDOS and Mr. Johnson and you're still down here?"

 _GLaDOS?_ Chell spells out slowly in her confusion, the frustration temporarily leaving her expression. _I met them. They brought me here. I'm supposed to be working for you._

"Caroline is just what Mr. Johnson calls her. It used to be her name by a technicality, but she'll skin you alive if you call her anything but GLaDOS," Wheatley explains, lips tightening. "And what do you mean, working for me? I've talked to that man a hundred times and he won't hire any more caretaking staff. Did you just... lie to Cave Johnson and GLaDOS at the same time and somehow make them believe you?"

Chell nods emphatically. She looks pretty pleased with herself, especially seeing Wheatley's disbelief. She doesn't even stop to _think_ of all the questions that she should have about GLaDOS, because none of them are as important now as this conversation.

"Man alive." His hand claps his forehead, and he looks down at her in amazement, struck utterly speechless by the foolishness of his sister and his own admiration of her. "That's... impressive. Absolutely impressive, not gonna lie."

Chell is positively beaming now. Still, she does have certain concerns to address.

 _GLaDOS does not like me, though,_ she tells Wheatley. _But Mr. Johnson thinks very highly of me. I did what I had to do to reach you. I was afraid for you._

"That's a given, love— GLaDOS doesn't like anybody. Not even Mr. Johnson, I don't think. Been more wrong about bigger things before, but she's... she makes her opinions known, mostly," he says, folding his arms and leaning back against the door, furrowing his brow slightly. He still looks overwhelmingly impressed with her, in spite of his concerns. "Would love to know how you got in Mr. Johnson's good graces, though. Man's a closed book."

Chell makes just one sign for this, with a big grin on her face. _Science!_ It's very emphatic.

Wheatley laughs. It somehow, in some senses, is an enormous relief, to have her here, making this joke at the expense of his boss, to have her make him laugh in the face of the many things that are going wrong. "Right. Good call."

 _Yes. So now you are my boss._ Chell states. Her hands are a flurry of motion as she goes on, _We need to get out of here and you need to get off the drugs. I can do the work until we can leave. What is going on and who were you talking to before you came in here?_

"I have not admitted to being on drugs, and I'm pretty sure that if I leave without getting the all clear, I'll get fired. Aren't you missing school right now?" This has just occurred to him, and it worries him greatly.

 _You are on drugs!_ Chell signs, punching her hand with her fist at the end and stamping her foot. Her bright pride has been replaced immediately with a redoubled frustration, a white hot anger. _I know that's what's been wrong with you, don't act like I'm stupid! It all makes sense now. And GLaDOS could tell me all about it if you won't. I called to tell school I could not make it. You should just quit working here if it takes drugs to make it possible to do your job._

"Lord, you've been here for all of ten minutes and you're already attracting pretty girls," he jokes wryly, but it can't diffuse the tension, and he drops the humor a moment later. "Alright, fine, so what if I am? It doesn't make a difference, right? If you couldn't tell, it obviously hasn't been affecting me that badly."

 _I could tell, you moron!_ Chell counters. _I've been trying to tell you that. I just didn't know it was..._ she pauses, searches for the word. _What is that, meth? Heroin?_ She is someone who knows of drugs only from gritty movies. She has to spell the words, because she doesn't have signs for them. _That's why you've been acting weird and on edge and cranky. You are not the same. I want my brother back. This has gone on too long, Wheatley, you are in danger!_

Her sign for his name is _big_ and _wheat_. Her hands tremble when she makes this sign and she realizes that they have been trembling for most of her speech.

"Meth," he says, spitting the word as if it has done something to annoy him, and only so that she will have a word to assign to the drug. He signs it as he says it. It's his practice to learn to sign words when he learns them aloud, and although he obviously already knew what meth was, he still felt he needed the word for it. "I'm right here, alright? I have not been acting weird, man alive. I've just been doing what I have to do! And I am not a moron!"

Chell looks like she is in danger of breaking down into tears at any moment. She swallows hard and mimics the sign. Meth. What an ugly word. It feels like it shouldn't exist out of those gritty movies, like it was something that Hollywood made up. It definitely shouldn't be in the hands and the veins of her brother.

 _I'm sorry, you're not a moron. You have been acting weird, though, or I wouldn't have noticed it and mentioned it all those times and worried about you. It's the meth. You don't have to be defensive about it anymore, Wheatley. I know now._

Wheatley looks like he wants to be angry. He's not very good at mastering his words, but a couple days without her has made him much less anxious to say anything that would upset her, and he wasn't particularly keen on that in the first place, so he doesn't say anything for a few moments, instead sinking down into his desk chair to look up at her. When finally he has reigned in his temper a little bit is when he speaks again. "It's just something that helps. I have to do so much around here. You'd be amazed how nice it is to have that extra energy. To feel like I can get everything done."

 _It isn't worth it in the long term,_ Chell tells him, stepping a little closer. _But, listen, I'm here to help you now._

It's a start, anyway. She isn't sure how much good it's going to do, but it will do for now. She really wants to get him out of here and find him a new job, though. Nothing could ever be worth all this.

"You don't get it— I need the stuff. It's the only thing that makes me any use at all. Outside of that, I can't even keep pace," he says, leaning back and running his hands through his hair. "No, I'm not gonna pretend it's good for me or anything, but, you know, what's my wellbeing in the grand scheme of things? Besides, I can't remember the last time I felt this... sturdy. This good about myself and my work. It's clearly not all bad."

Chell looks shocked. Her expression is abruptly open and her eyes wide. _What's your wellbeing? Wheatley, you're my brother! I need you!_

"That's exactly it! I've got to be able to hold myself together for you," he says at once, as if she's just stumbled onto some great truth. "Don't you see that? If I can't help take care of you, what've I even got?"

 _Are you even going to be able to do that if you're taking meth? You didn't even realize you'd been gone for days. And, when I asked about you, GLaDOS said you'd probably overdosed somewhere!_ Chell challenges.

"Stop taking things GLaDOS says seriously!" Wheatley retorts, folding his arms. They only stay folded for a moment, however; he talks with them too much to keep them out of the action. "You don't get how much it helps! How could you? I don't blame you for that— between us, the only thing I got was the voice, everybody knows that. I know you've always got everything under control, but sometimes I need a leg up!"

Chell shakes her head. _That isn't true. I believe in you, Wheatley._ She thumps her chest for emphasis before going on. _You don't need to use something that's going to poison you! Why can't you get addicted to energy drinks like everybody else? And are you even gonna address the fact that you didn't know you'd been gone for days? Because you didn't know you'd been gone for days._

"Look, I knew I'd been gone... longer than normal. I'm not totally oblivious. Yes, there are some negative side-effects. But if you ask me, the bad is outweighed by the good in this case. Anything that's gonna allow me to be able to hep you," he rebuffs firmly. "Anyway, I cannot stand the taste of energy drinks."

Chell puts her hands on her hips, frowning and sucking in her lower lip. She couldn't argue with him before she knew he was taking meth and she can't seem to argue with him now. It seems like she won't be able to impact the situation in a meaningful way until she finds out what exactly he's been pulling all these extra shifts for. What is Aperture having a simple caretaker do that calls for a white night and illegal drugs?

 _That's ridiculous and you know it._ She tells him, biting on her lip a little. _Who were you talking to outside just now? You sounded angry._

Wheatley breaths out in a rush of air, not a little bit annoyed at the question, but he answers honestly. "I saw GLaDOS out there. She just had a couple of questions for me, is all. Testing initiative. Whether I have a sister. S'pose I see why she was asking after that one now. She wanted to talk more to me, but it seemed she was walking with Mr. Johnson."

 _What's the testing initiative?_ Chell asks.

"Do I have a sister?" Wheatley counters, frowning at her, showing no shame at betraying his annoyance.

 _Yes, what's the testing initative?_

"Very cute." He lightly kicks the side of his desk— not enough to be violent, or to make a real noise, but enough to express some frustration.

 _Is that's what's making you need to pull all these extra hours?_

Unperturbed. Relentless.

"God— kind of?" He lifts his hands, palms up, then smacks them down onto the armrests. "More people staying here full time, more use of the residential wing and relaxation vaults, more personal care to attend to, more work for the caretaker."

Chell nods along. _Good thing there is a new hire then,_ she signs.

"There most certainly is not," Wheatley retorts shortly. "There is a student who needs to not get expelled on the account of trying to make sure I'm alright."

Chell shakes her head. _Students can take on jobs, and I've been hired by Cave Johnson himself. If you're staying then I'm staying._ She decides firmly. There is no shaking this girl's resolve, none at all.

"Bloody hell." He runs his hands through his hair again. "I'm trying to take care of you, love, just _let me_. And like I said, I don't think I can go topside now, but I'm sure nobody will stop you."

 _GLaDOS would,_ Chell replies. _Wheatley, I'm worried about you. We can worry about each other if you want, but I'm not leaving._

Wheatley groans audibly, kicking the desk again, in the same frustrated way as before. "Look, I know you're honestly better at everything else than me, but you do not need to show up at my job and start babysitting me."

 _I'm not babysitting you, I am working as your assistant, which you have been asking Mr. Johnson for for ages._ Chell answers proudly, pushing her chest out.

"I had imagined somebody a bit less related to me," he says, lip curling slightly. "Matter of fact, I daresay I _require_ somebody a little bit less related to me. This is a full-time job, love. I'm not going to be responsible for screwing up your education."

 _I'm not gonna let my education get screwed up, and you're not the one responsible for this decision. I'm filling a need._ Chell insists.

He groans again, more loudly and pointedly this time, and runs a hand through his hair. "They're not even gonna be paying you for this. You didn't actually apply. You're not on the payroll."

 _I'll get that settled, don't you worry,_ Chell assures him. _It's the work that matters most anyway._

"No, it's not. You're what matters most," he says, but he can tell he's losing this argument. Frustrated, he turns away from her, resting his arms on the desk, tilting his head so that he can still see her from where he's sitting.

Chell sighs. She comes over to him and rubs his shoulder. She doesn't want to argue with him. She just wants this to be over and for them to be home. No more meth. No more disappearances. No more weird behaviour and temper.

Wheatley leans into the touch gratefully. "...S'pose I should give you the proper orientation."

Chell nods, her expression softened. She continues rubbing his shoulder.

"Thing of it is, I had no warning at all. So, you know, forgive me if I'm not very well put together. Don't even know the _welcome to Aperture_ spiel you're supposed to get," Wheatley says with a huff, trying to allow himself to relax.

 _Just tell me what you need me to do, I guess,_ Chell signs with a shug. _I already got the history of Aperture from Mr. Johnson._ She lets herself smile again and tilts her head a little.

"Hearing history from the man who made it," Wheatley says appreciatively, and now that her hands are off of him he turns to pull open a drawer, looking for something. "Sounds more exciting than it is in practice, doesn't it?"

Chell nods. _There was a lot about himself in there,_ she tells Wheatley. _I didn't know Aperture started out with shower curtains. And he gave himself awards. It was very... scientific._

He emerges with an employee badge in his hand, and this he offers to her, a small square of white plastic with his name and a number on one side, and a different number on the back. "Yep, shower curtains. But then he realized shower curtains don't go down in history. Here— badge you can use to get in and out of doors, very helpful when you need to get in and out of doors. Careful with it— that's my only spare. Number on the front— that one, yeah —is my employee ID, which I, ah, suppose is yours right now too. Number on the back will get you into any door in the whole residential wing that has a keypad. Again, please do not lose this, I do not want to have to ask to change the master combination again."

Chell gives a little laugh at this, silent but so very clear. She accepts the badge carefully in her hands, and watches him at he speaks before nodding her acknowledgement.

"Right? Good. Let's see, anything else you'll need before I give you the tour... well, I'm assuming they already gave you the welcome package and benefits information," he says, giving her a wry look.

Chell smiles in kind and sticks her tongue out part of the way.

"Right, you're going to need to treat this job with a little bit more professionalism than that," he mock chastises, wagging a finger at her as he shuts the drawer and stands again.

Chell stands a little straighter and puts her feet together. She purses her lips slightly and gives a mock salute.

"At ease," he says, swatting her shoulder. "Anything I should know about the lies you told Mr. Johnson and GLaDOS? Just so we've our stories straight."

Chell takes a moment to think this over. _I told GLaDOS I was looking for my brother over the intercom, but when I was talking to her and Mr. Johnson in person, I said that I was here because I wanted to help further science, which I think means no brother,_ she answers.

"So, we're..." A short pause. "...Not related. Right then. Pleasure to meet you, stranger-I've-never-seen-before-in-my-life."

Chell nods and offers a hand in a quick motion.

Wheatley takes her hand in his and gives it a quick, firm shake. "Wheatley Rattmann, at your service. But friends call me Wheatley. Caretaker here at Aperture."

Chell lifts her hands after the shake and answers, _Chell Rattman. I'm your new assistant. You can call me Chell._

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Chell," he says, signing along with the words. For her name, he doesn't even bother to spell it out as if he doesn't know her, but makes his familiar namesign for her- _little bunny_.

Chell giggles silently, feeling just for this one moment like things are normal, like everything is the way it always has been and there are no drugs, no Aperture Laboratories.

 _Likewise, Wheatley,_ she answers, using her namesign for him in kind. Hands clapped together, then split wide apart, then back together so she can make one into a field and make two quick motions of wheat growing from behind it.

Wheatley's smile softens as she makes his namesign, boundlessly appreciative. It feels like nothing in his life is in his control anymore, but the love he has for his sister makes it so much easier to bear. Still, worry returns for him a moment later, as he steps past her and puts his hand on the doorknob.

His voice softens, too, but in a melancholic way. "Now... love, listen. I know why you're doing this, but I promise you don't have to. I have just... the most awful feeling about you staying down here. Swear to me you're going to come back up to the surface just as soon as I do, yeah? With me? And not ever, ever come back."

Chell breathes in deep. She nods, then touches his chest and gestures outward. This is followed by, _I want us to leave this place behind._

His mouth twists slightly, dissatisfied. "And why is me quitting my job a part of this equation?"

Chell presses her mouth to one side and frowns softly. She touches his arm where there's a bruise from the needle.

Wheatley pulls his arm back from her, the flush returning to his face. "That's got nothing to do with it."

She shakes her head and touches it again, then from his arm draws her hand up to say, _It has everything to do with it._

"It— it really doesn't. All it means is I'd have to look for a new job where I'll be overworked and disrespected, one that probably doesn't pay near as well," Wheatley protests, rubbing his forearm self-consciously. "And without my boost."

 _You need a job where you don't use your boost,_ Chell tells him. She takes both his arms and turns him to face her.

He doesn't want to meet her eyes; his gaze focuses on one of her hands instead, which is a thin façade considering that her hands are on his arms and not doing any talking right now. "Not really in the market to get rid of it, love."

Chell shakes her head insistently. She isn't letting this go; despite knowing that she still needs that missing piece of the puzzle before she can truly get through to Wheatley, she nevertheless wants it to be known in the meantime that she can give no quarter.

Wheatley looks frustrated, sounds frustrated, but neither can possibly amount to just how frustrated he feels. "You don't get it. How do I make you get it? You don't need the stuff, you're Chell, but I— just think of it like coffee. Really good coffee."

Chell lets go of his arms to tell him, _Meth is very different from coffee._

"Well— yes, it is. But you're focusing really hard on the bad parts. There's lots of negative side effects to coffee too, but people just shrug those off," he says; as soon as she lets go of his arms, he rubs his forearm self-consciously again.

Chell shakes her head with a frustrated sigh. Not like that. It's not anything like that.

His eyes meet hers, blue to blue; his are darker, a bit greyer, but they always catch the light just so, with an intensity that makes them almost light up. "You don't get it."

She nods to him. That isn't true. Gritty movies have shown her what happens when you inject things you shouldn't into yourself and she knows that the reality can only be worse, uglier than Hollywood. She gets that he honestly thinks that the meth is like coffee, after a fashion. She gets that Wheatley is Wheatley, although the stuff is changing him piece by piece into someone else, a stranger in her brother's skin.

"No, you don't, you obviously don't," he says, slicing a hand through the air to underscore the point. "Just— let's just do the tour, shall we?"

Chell sighs and nods reluctantly.

Wheatley holds the door open for her and gives a little bow. "Don't let it worry you, love. Lots to see and do down here."

It does worry her, of course, but she has to let that go for the time being. She gives him a half nod of acknowledgement and walks past, trying to affect a mock regal air.

He follows her out, pulling the door shut behind them. It feels strange for him to have her down here, wearing one of those awful orange jumpsuits, and while yes, he trusts her, and no, he doesn't think that Aperture is dangerous per se, he can't make himself feel like she's safe here.

"Right. Well. This—" A sweeping gesture to the hall in front of them, which has steel grating for the ceiling and floor, so that it's possible to see several floors up and down. "—Is the residential wing. Used to be a dozen or two really important scientists, now it's... an awful lot more. Some staying down here full time, others just doing overnight shifts. Follow along, I'll show you the relaxation vaults first; have to pop over there anyway, issue with one of the air vents I've to look at."

Chell nods. She is following along, of course, although she is taking in the strange and, in a way, almost exciting view of the rooms extending up and down as far as she can possibly see. They are not reminiscent of the rooms of a roadside motel so much as many huge steel crates, each containing entire housing units.

"Now, you may be asking yourself, what is the difference between residential and relaxation areas? Sound basically the same, don't they?" He leads her down a stairwell, not bothering to look back, because he knows she's right behind him. "Almost. Sort of. Residential facilities are for regular living. Relaxation facilities, on the other hand... bit different. In layman's terms, sort of a controlled coma. Cryo-sleep. Freezer storage, like you see in movies. 'Bout twenty of 'em, so far, and only in the testing stage, not long-term use."

Chell's head swivels to look at Wheatley, as if it will help his words to sink in. She hadn't known about the cryo-sleep chambers, and indeed it sounds more outlandish and impressive than anything she's encountered yet— although, when she thinks about it, GLaDOS definitely competes, whatever she _actually_ is. No wonder Mr. Johnson is so proud of the advancements Aperture is making, if they can pull that off. Then again, the man has an almost comical ego, so perhaps that isn't such a good standard.

He's glanced back at her for her reaction, and he nods at the expression on her face. "Yep. That's it exactly. Mind you, they're also a great deal more stressful to look after than the residential areas. I feel like, if somebody dies in there, it's sort of my fault, isn't it?"

Chell nods, although she is still amazed at what she's being told. Goodness, and all this is Wheatley's responsibility! She supposes this is a part of what's driving him to such desperate lengths, but that cannot be all of it.

"Let's see..." They've reached a distinct block of these concrete boxes, each stenciled with a number, and he hesitates, trying to remember something. His hand goes instinctively to his pocket, but he still doesn't know what became of his phone, and he forgot to grab the note. "Which vault was it..."

Chell leans towards him as if she could help him to divine the answer. She looks at him with distinct interest, wondering what they're after.

He catches her interest, and answers her unspoken inquiry. "One of the bloody things is having an air vent issue I need to look at, and I forgot my notes. Eighteen, I believe...?"

Recognition flashes on Chell's face, and she nods.

Wheatley's hands linger in the air, and he gives her a curious look, before it settles info one of dawning realization. "You were poking around on my desk, weren't you?"

Chell's eyes widen slightly, but surprise doesn't last long before she turns her head coyly away.

Her brother folds his arms and gives her a stern look. "Should've expected as much. Learn anything good?"

 _I thought you'd disappeared._ Chell admits, still looking away at the ground.

His look softens, and he unfolds his arms to lightly buff her hair with one hand. "Well, I suppose in a way I did. That bit's sort of on me."

Chell blows a raspberry and swats gently at his hand. _Yes, it is. I was looking for clues._

"Find any, Holmes?" He asks, pulling his hand away from her swat and buffing her hair again.

Chell tugs away with another double swat and brightly nods. _Lot of notes._

"I do make a few of those," he remarks, now moving down the walkway again, presumably towards relaxation vault number 18.

Chell thinks better of mentioning the computer, following him quietly up towards the relaxation vault and its mysteries.

If she reveals she was able to get into his computer, he'll probably change his password, anyway— and she might want access to that, in case of emergencies. Naturally, it is not in her best interests to bring that up. He still hasn't even explained what the testing initiative is.

"Right, this is the one," he says, approaching the cube marked with the right number, and punching a code into the access panel. The door opens before him, and he steps inside, ducking a bit as he does.

She steps into the cube behind him, greatly intrigued and curious about what she will find on the inside.

It affects the air of an extremely strange and somewhat bare-bones bedroom. There is a bed, there's a television on the wall, there's the door to what looks like a bathroom. A bizarre looking machine sits next to the bed, and there are cameras in either corner, as well as a rail on the ceiling for whatever purpose. Another thing that jumps out is that the air feels very thin. Wheatley leaves the door open.

"These units are pretty airtight," he says, going right over to the vent for a look. "So if the air vent didn't function, then there's just... no oxygen in there. Not good for the general living arrangement... or being alive."

Chell takes shallow breaths, looking over towards the bed. It's a strange environment, and nothing at all like what she'd pictured when Wheatley mentioned cryogenic stasis. It almost looks like a dingy hotel room. Is this room occupied, and is its occupant all right?

When Wheatley glances at her, he seems to read these questions in her expression. "Don't ask me. I don't understand the sciencey bits of it at all— I just know how to take care of the room."

Do they keep him in the dark about this, too? It seems like there is a lot going on that doesn't show on the surface, even way down here beneath the face the facility shows.

Chell asks, _The people, too? Or just the room?_

"Both," he says, putting an open hand on the vent and then frowning slightly at it. "Nobody's living in here full time yet. When they are, they've got all kinds of people watching them, including me sometimes. Also, air is coming out of this vent, but it's not oxygenated. Are you kidding me?"

Well, that pretty much answers her questions. Chell stands closer and watches with a slight frown. For air to be coming in that isn't oxygenated sounds like a tremendous issue, particularly when it feels like being on top of a mountain just standing in the room. She shudders inwardly to think of the effects of being stuck in here, comatose and totally unaware of your own slow suffocation.

Wheatley gives a soft, humorless laugh at the face she makes, and shakes his head. "You're right about that. Come on, we need to check if the other vaults are having the same problem. They should all be getting their air from the same source."

Chell nods, scrunching up her nose. She makes a cutting motion in the too-thin air and follows him with a certain alacrity. It's safe to say that the other units are probably having the same problem with the oxygen as this one, and those might not all be as empty as this one.

Wheatley leads her to the next one down the line, number seventeen. When he punches in the same code and the door opens, the air is just as thin as in the first vault. He groans, and takes a step back. "Somebody's gone and screwed up my air."

Chell breathes deeply so long as they are between vaults, a little bit lightheaded from being in the previous vault. She frowns in concern at Wheatley's comment, not immediately catching the thin air inside number seventeen. She feels a sinking in her gut.

Wheatley doesn't bother to go inside seventeen, instead moving back down the walkway to sixteen. Instinctively, his hand goes for his pocket, but there is still no phone there, no means by which to give his superiors an update, or to demand an update of them. When this relaxation chamber yields the same results, he turns to Chell. "Lovely mess this is. Love, can you finish checking these for me? I'm going to go make sure it's just the relaxation chambers having this problem, and not anything else I'm in charge of. I'll be right back."

Chell nods quickly, and turns at once to begin checking the remaining vaults from sixteen down. She power walks over to fifteen and opens the door, leans inside to check the air with a deep breath.

The result is the same. So is fourteen, and thirteen after that. It's a highly unnerving phenomenon, one with no ready explanation.

Chell is growing anxious, and ever so slightly dizzy. She keeps going anyway, determined to check every single last one of these rooms until Wheatley comes back so she can give him her report.

She's almost done by the time he returns, his quick pace made even quicker by his long strides. "What's the verdict, love?"

Chell shakes her head and makes a flat-hand cutting motion in front of her throat.

"Bloody brilliant. Several of the residential chambers are, too, but fortunately it looks like only unoccupied areas were affected." He looks aggravated, and it's only made worse by the fact that he hasn't slept in God knows how long. "Well, normally these are top of the line, extremely safe facilities. I'll have to show you the interiors in a bit more detail later, I need to call maintenance and give Mr. Johnson an update, and I still have no idea at all what happened to my phone."

Chell nods firmly, takes her own out of her pocket and offers it to Wheatley. She looks a little worried, but mostly serious. Nobody has died, that's good. This is, however, still a severe issue, and could soon affect those staying here, which again would be disastrous if they're sleeping.

He looks a little surprised, as if it hadn't occurred to him that he could use her phone, and he accepts it with a look of gratitude. "Thanks, love. Now let's see if I remember the numbers."

Chell makes the sign for _eighteen_ , then quickly points downward.

"Phone numbers," he corrects wryly, but he signs _thank you_ at the same time, a sweeping motion away from his mouth. He taps a number into the phone and leans against the railing of the walkway; it doesn't so much as quiver under his weight, but it still overlooks a very long drop.

She grins at him in reply. It doesn't remove the sinking feeling from her gut, but it does make her feel a little bit better. She waves her fingers, a hair's breadth from wringing her hands.

She doesn't like the look of Wheatley leaning against that railing, but she doesn't mention it.

He waits some several moments, and then he tells the phone his full name, and then he waits a few more moments, and then he's launching into a description of the problem, talking quite as much with his hands as his voice and even signing some of the words. To say he seems agitated would be an understatement, but he's actively trying to keep his cool.

Chell inches a little closer and gently nudges his arm in an effort to reassure him. It's so apparent how much he's changed, how the drugs are affecting him. Yes, the problem is severe and, again, could have proven fatal if they hadn't caught it, but he's so wired. It's in his every word, in his speech, in his wild hands. She doesn't know what to do except be there for him.

He actually _jumps_ when she touches him, taken off guard by the contact, and he only relaxes when he glances down and sees that it's her, although of course he knows it couldn't have been anyone else. Absently, he puts his hand on her shoulder, comforting.

God, for him to be that jumpy... It's just so wrong. Chell sighs and rests her head against him. She closes her eyes, trying to convince herself to relax. There's a lot of work ahead of them.

He keeps his arm around her, and it seems to calm him down, more or less. Finally, he ends the call, and he glances down at her with a glint in his eye. "Can you believe? This idiots are trying to tell me they were testing the oxygen conversion units. I know that's a lie, those were already tested. Also, you don't test them by shutting them off."

Chell's eyes open at his voice and she looks up to meet his gaze. She frowns at this information. That's a bizarre lie to tell. What were they doing really? Whatever it was, it suddenly becomes sharply clear that there was no accident.

 _The affected units were all unoccupied,_ Chell signs.

Wheatley presses his lips into a thin line. Having this pointed out to him makes him suddenly unnerved. "Right you are. What do you make of it?"

 _They were trying something out maybe,_ Chell signs, although she's kind of wishes she hadn't mentioned it. _The air was still running so probably wasn't just to save money._

"Whatever it was, I didn't appreciate it," Wheatley says tensely. He looks away for a moment, and shudders in some very negative emotion. "Never mind it. If that's the case, Mr. Johnson probably already knows about it, but for something like this, I still have to update him."

Chell acknowledges this, but can offer no particular input. Mr. Johnson would have authorized whatever this was, and now Wheatley has to tell him all about the effects. She feels frustrated on his behalf; that man must be a nightmare to work for.

Clearly rather unwillingly, he dials another number, and when this one is answered, he speaks to it with forced, begrudging respect. The first half of the call goes more or less exactly the same way; him describing what's happened, the person on the other end frustrating him. It's only after this that he pauses, seeming a bit taken off guard. "—Thank you, sir? ...What? No, I... Yes, she's doing fine so far. ...No, I'm not part of that initiative. —Because I only have one person helping me, and I literally only got her today! —Yes, I do, sir. You are, sir. But why...?"

There's that sinking feeling in Chell's belly again, and it's taking everything else down with it. She looks up at her brother, watching him speak with dread in her throat and her lips sealed tight.

There is only one thing she can connect the word initiative to down here, and it is a loaded word, heavy with meaning unknown to her. It's a source of unease, even _horror_ to Wheatley, and so to her, it holds deadly potential.

His arm tightens around her shoulders. He doesn't seem to like what he's hearing. "—You know, that reminds me, I still can't go top for some reason. —Naturally, but I've been down here two days now. ...What? ...I mean, it helps, but it doesn't make me into a robot or something. —What? No, I just want to go home and get a nap in!"

Chell's brow furrows, and she puts her hand on Wheatley's arm, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. She can feel her insides twisting at his tone, and not knowing is making it harder and harder to take.

"—Yes, sir, but I— what? Wait— Mr. Johnson— He's hung up." Wheatley offers her the phone back with a soft curse, his expression dark.

She accepts the phone and puts it back into her pocket, the jumpsuit rustling as she does. She is frowning with tremendous consternation.

As soon as it's put away, she lets go of Wheatley's arm and asks, _What's going on? What's wrong?_

Wheatley opens his mouth, then shakes his head. "Never mind it, love. Just company politics, I suppose."

It sounds like the farthest possible thing from just company politics.

Chell taps his shoulder before signing, _No, tell me what's going on. You got really upset. And it involved me._ She looks stern, and yet there is very clearly fear in her eyes.

"Oh, that part? He just wanted to know how you were getting along so far, that's as much as you were involved," Wheatley says, underscoring the words with his usual hand gestures. He doesn't deny how upset it got him. "That and I mentioned that I don't have any bloody help around here, but I think I mention that every time he talks to me."

 _What about going to the surface? And the initiative?_ Chell insists, giving no quarter.

"Says he's looking into the surface bit, but who ever even knows with him," Wheatley says. He does not address the initiative.

 _He mentioned something that was supposed to help you. Did he give you the meth?_ Chell asks accusingly, frowning at him. She goes on to repeat, _And what about the initiative?_

Wheatley's face heats up. "Awful leap in logic, there. And the testing initiative doesn't apply to me, so it's not important."

 _It is not, answer the questions! Both of them!_ Chell signs, shoving her hands towards him. She punctuates this demand with a stamp of her foot, her cheeks reddened.

Wheatley glances away for a moment, and then back at her. "Yes, Mr. Johnson gave me the meth. I did not know what it was at the time. Are you happy?"

Chell deflates visibly. She looks gloomily from Wheatley to the floor and then back up again. She shakes her head. But then she puts her hand to her mouth and waves it down in front of herself, palm up; _thank you._

She then sighs and reaches to touch his arm again.

Wheatley looks like he's ready for a fight until she says that. Then he sighs, and he puts his arms around her, hugging her to his chest and resting his chin in her hair. "Soon as I tried the stuff, I felt like I was on top of the world, like I could do anything. I also felt like I was having a heart attack. But he did not warn me what it was that he was having me put in my body."

Chell stays put, biting her lip at this new revelation. She should have known. For the first time she is truly seeing that Cave Johnson is a _monster_ , treating employees as though they are disposable in the name of furthering himself, calling it scientific pursuit. This is what had pushed Wheatley so far, had made him work night and day at menial tasks that many people should have been doing. This is how he began putting poison into his veins, why he would barely speak to her and so often started fights. This place and that man, who would pump the oxygen out of residential units and lie about it, they are grinding Wheatley down like stripping cogs, and they will not stop until he is smoothed down, ruined and useless.

Wheatley holds her to himself and leans against the railing, physically, tangibly exhausted. For a few moments he's silent, and the only sound is the soft ambience of the facility itself. Finally, he sighs again. "I need a nap. I think I'm just going to hole myself up in my office for a bit."

Chell nods into his shirt and gently disentangles herself from him. She puts her arm around him as she does, offering her support to help him get back to his office with a meaningful, concerned look.

"I can walk just fine, you know," he says, but he accepts the help nonetheless, leading her along back the way they'd come from.

Chell acknowledges this as they walk. Truth be told, she really wouldn't like to be too far from him right now. She's worried, and this whole thing is just a mess.

As soon as they're back in his office, he kicks the door shut behind them, pushes up his sleeves, and collapses in his desk chair, his eyes half open and directed more towards the ceiling than her. "I imagine you'd probably be annoyed with me if I said I really want a shot right now."

Chell frowns severely and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She casts her gaze uncomfortably off to one side, and, at length, she raises one fist and twists it up and down; _yes_.

He glances away from her, moves his hand over his heart. _Sorry_. "Would you let me do it anyway?"

Chell draws in both her lips, still looking off to the side. She shifts her weight again and then nods, moving her head as she does from the side back to the front again, to look over at Wheatley.

 _I heard you aren't supposed to stop cold turkey. But I hate it. I hate meth. I hate what it's done to you._ She ends this statement pointing at him as if holding the last word for several long moments.

Wheatley looks guilty. Not because of the meth— he still holds the same view on it —but because he dislikes upsetting his sister. Having that accusatory gesture held for so long makes him twist uncomfortably, and finally he is the first to turn away, going into the only locked drawer of his desk to retrieve a plastic-wrapped syringe and a vial and one of those sanitary wipes you get at hospitals. At least he's not reusing needles. A benefit of working in a lab, it seems.

Chell wants to look away and spare herself, but to do so would be to let it feel less real, and she can't have that. Besides, she is frozen to the spot, paralyzed with her gaze stuck to the vial, realizing they produce that stuff somewhere right here in Aperture. How it seems like something only made in the garages of the desperate, and yet here it is being produced in one of the finest facilities in America by men who surely have the resources to accomplish anything.

And there is the drug that is hurting her brother, being administered like a medical procedure right in front of her.

He rips open the wipe and cleans off a spot on his arm, and it makes it seem somehow even more clinical. As though this is something that's supposed to be happening instead of the nightmare that it is. The tracks on his arms, of course, reveal that this is far from the first time he's done this, but there's something awful about the practiced ease with which he opens the syringe and draws from the vial. Here he pauses, glancing at her. He does not actually ask if she's sure she wants to be watching for this, but the question is implied, and he's giving her an opportunity to turn away.

Chell purses her lips and lowers her head a little, maintaining her gaze. She is surprised to be able to move that much, but she is quick to find that it's all she can manage, trapped as if by a witch's curse. She does not take the opportunity given. Her mind is already made up.

Wheatley turns away from her again, and his eyes half-shut as they fall back to his arm, as if he too wants to look away but can't. Unlike Chell, however, there's no sense of dread, but instead of anticipation. When the needle slides into his skin, his eyes flutter, and he lets out a gentle groan in a sense of what sounds almost like euphoria.

Watching it seems somehow indecent. He's doing something horrible, but it brings him a visibly intense pleasure.

Chell is sickened by the spectacle, this amalgam of wretchedness and relief that she hasn't got the words to compare it with. She wants to run over there and stop him, but she doesn't. She's horrified, she's overcome. She agreed to let this happen because she knew she couldn't stop it, and yet now she just wishes that she could snatch the syringe away from him. This can't happen again. He cannot keep doing this.

He hisses softly as the needle comes back out again, and he tosses the thing in the trash, but the moment isn't ending, not really. He leans back, his curled fingers lightly rested on his arm where he injected himself, his eyes wide and his breathing quick between parted lips. He's shuddering, his face is flushed, his brow slightly furrowed; it's as if something impossibly intimate has taken place between that needle and his arm. It's impossible to say what he's thinking or feeling as that intimate transaction spreads its poison through his blood.

Chell watches unflinching, almost detached from what she's witnessing. It's something nobody is ever supposed to see, and she's standing there watching, lecherously, wishing she could be anywhere else, anyone else. Like that can't possibly be Wheatley over there in this strange state, surreal, remade. Like that couldn't possibly be anyone else.

He gasps, as if the feeling has snuck up on him, and he shudders again, gripping his arm a little. He closes his eyes, suddenly, like it's something he's just remembered to do. From the back of his throat he moans again, deep and low, almost dipping into a growl. She wouldn't have left if he'd asked, but he's clearly already stopped caring if he's being observed.

He will likely stay there without moving for awhile.

It is disgusting, viscerally, and Chell finally manages to shed her paralysis and move, slow and hesitant. It's a process, like starting up an old car in the cold. It seems to her like ages before she's suddenly crossed the room, no recollection of walking, and she's near her brother; not right next to him, but just a little to the side, horrified for him, and yet still watching.

It feels intimate, in a way almost sexual, but to describe it that way would make it sound natural. It's abhorrent, a thing that ought only be found in back alleys, in the most horrible dredges of the world. It shouldn't be here in this gleaming facility, here in her brother's body. He doesn't look up at her; he might not even realize she's approached him. His eyelashes flutter, and his throat moves with silent sound, each moan that does and does not make it past his lips.

What have Cave Johnson and his horrible laboratories done to Wheatley?

No wonder he would say this is harmless— besides the coffee rush he's claimed, and who knows what that bastard has told him. Lies, just like the one about testing the oxygen. All just lies.

Watching the process go underway has made things clearer, but it's given her a horror film vision that she can never forget, one which she can already predict will stay with her for years to come. She feels dirty for having seen it, as if having borne witness has made her complicit in the act.

Meth is such a big word for having only one syllable, heavier even than initiative and its unknowns. It feels like strung out junkies sleeping on cardboard, like men with guns snarling and trading in lives and briefcases full of cash. It's a curse word used to describe a devil.

 _Wheatley_ , Chell signs, vainly, hands only barely touching together before they spread out for the first part of his namesign. It's hesitant and shaky. She knows he doesn't see her.

His breaths are coming harder and shallower than before, the first kick of the drug giving way only to a second, rather than fading away. His pupils are dilated, his grip of his arm tightens and his shaking worsens, and he doesn't look at her. He looks like something is strangling him from the inside. He looks like a scene out of a movie.

When finally this cripplingly powerful high begins to taper off, after what feels like a small eternity, he's breathing as if he just ran a marathon race. He probably won't talk to her yet. Given the aggression he's displayed in the recent past, it might not be smart to talk to him for awhile.

Chell turns away from this atrocity, her shoulders weighed down; there's really nothing more to be gained from the nightmarish display. The motion gets her to notice the computer again, with its screen still dark, and she perks up a little, glances over at Wheatley.

He looks far too preoccupied (too far gone) to notice whatever she does now, and so she slowly, carefully slides herself in between him and the desk, and switches on the monitor.

The computer is still unlocked from where she left it before— thank goodness he hadn't needed it for anything in the meantime, honestly. Its owner sits behind her, his hand on his arm and his legs out in front of him, and he neither notices nor cares what she does.

Chell gets the feeling that it will be a while before that changes, but she is nervous, and knows she can't waste time. Quickly, she begins to investigate the computer's contents.


	3. Coworkers

There's several company programs with variations on the Aperture logo for icons, as well as the usual calendar, email, office programs. All of it might be useful, and Wheatley might decide at any time that for whatever reason he doesn't want her messing about with his desk, despite his distraction.

Chell swallows. She isn't sure where to go first, or how much she has time to go through. Logically, the email or calendar are what she knows will probably serve her best, although she feels guilty even considering intruding on them. Unfortunately, she has no choice, anymore.

Calendar first, maybe. It's like to have an _at-a-glance_ view, whereas the email will take longer to sift through. Maybe a quick overview will serve her well when trying to gather more details.

Right, right. That's decided, then. On this, with a deep breath, she opens the calendar app and hurriedly begins to peruse it.

It shows her a monthly view that immediately highlights something weird. The first half of the month is packed. Every single day has notes. Judging by the way the way a lot of them are written, the thing is probably synced with his phone, and he probably makes them on the fly, his own strange sort of organization. The second half of the month is busy, too, but noticeably less so- entire days have nothing on them.

All of today's tasks are highlighted as overdue, but yesterday's have been dealt with, giving a hint as to when exactly he lost his phone.

Chell frowns at it. Before she goes over the month's tasks, she takes a quick look at the previous three month, flipping back to see how they compare in terms of workload.

Busy. Overwhelmingly busy. Seems like it started getting heavier around the same time she'd begun to notice his changes in attitude and temperament.

Again, there seems to be no such thing for him as a free day.

She frowns, and goes first a bit further, and then back to this month. With the briefest of glances back at Wheatley, Chell starts to check the tasks that his wretched employers have heaped upon him, and to try and puzzle out why they seem so heavy towards the beginning of the month, consistent with the last three or so, and so light near the end.

There seem to be notes highlighted in different colors, and upon closer inspection, the colors seem to reveal task priority- or more accurately, who told him to do something. The difference in the first and second half of this month is evident the second she takes a longer look: the first half is all different colors, where the second half is only notes in blue. It only takes a little digging to see that blue indicates notes to self or self-assignment.

That doesn't sit well at all with Chell. He can't be bogged down with every conceivable task for months on end and then have it all just stop like that. They're too close to the end of that projected workload for that to make sense, and they've been weighing him down so much that it's quite literally taken over his life. This isn't right. Something isn't right.

To make things still more disconcerting, there is no handy clue as to why his workload should suddenly lessen to virtually nothing. The very last item coded for a different source is in red, and it says _mr johnson's office - re: relaxation vault trials_. Does that mean they intend on sticking him into one? With how much weight he pulls around this place, a workload far beyond one man's capacity, it seems unlikely.

That's what she needs to learn more about, then. ' _Relaxation vault trials_ ' sounds ominous, and knowing what they are does nothing to ease her mind about the brief, implacable note. Those six words, not forming even a whole sentence, hold horrors untold in their secret meaning. With another glance back, Chell begins to move to the email.

But when she glances back at Wheatley, he is looking at her, something strange in his wide, deep blue eyes. He gives a slight jerk as their gazes connect, as though he hadn't quite realized she was there. It's an intense look.

She closes the window at once, gut reaction, pure instinct. Oh God. Time's up _._

He doesn't look away from her as she does this. When he speaks, his speech isn't slurred- it's quite clear, actually, but it sounds like another person completely. It's a question, but it doesn't sound like a question. "What are you doing, love?"

Chell hesitates, because it's so, so eerie. There's this feeling of being in a movie when the pause button is pressed, an old VHS that warps and fizzles before it's still, all of time frozen in an instant. No breathing, no heartbeat, only those eyes looking back at her, eyes so similar to her own, but distorted by the pausing of the tape, static and unreal, impossibly fixed. It's like they're the only things that she can still see. She feels so cold that she almost forgets that she's been mute from birth, that this isn't a new development, her voice not stolen by the ice in Wheatley's.

 _I just was looking to see if there was anything about the job_ , she signs, warped with the unpausing of the tape, the flickering in distorted space and time where nothing makes sense and even the most lifelike details just don't seem real at all.

His eyes dip from hers to her hands only a second after she's begun her sentence, and they don't linger there, as if he really doesn't care what the answer is. He leans forward in his chair. They're siblings, so it isn't as if he hasn't been close to her before, hugging her or passing the popcorn or nudging her to remind her that she has to actually be facing him for him to read her signs, but there's something about his closeness now that feels... sinister. Like even he, in this moment, is not just an employee of Aperture Laboratories, but a part of it. "You really did come all the way down here just to babysit me, didn't you? What makes you so convinced I can't take care of myself?"

She flinches like a well-worn tape, missing her cue. Where does she belong in this scene? Who is she? Perhaps more importantly, who is _he_? It was stupid, indescribably stupid to let him take that shot right in front of her. She had seen it as an argument avoided; hoped, in her severe lack of knowledge of drugs (no real world grounding at all), that this would be something that he would do and then it would be over. But this is the source of her troubles, isn't it? The reason he's been growing ever more distant.

She turns her head.

Wheatley's expression darkens as she turns away, and his lip curls into a snarl, and the grip of his hand, still rested on his arm, tightens until his nails are leaving marks in his skin. He looks like an entirely different person. He looks- dangerous. "Get out."

Chell is horrified. In fact, the word is perhaps too weak to do this feeling justice. She looks at him, takes a step away, forms his namesign.

When his word is not immediately heeded, he stands, kicking the chair away behind himself. He's much taller than her, but it is not his greater height that makes it feel that he is towering over her. It's frightening. "Did you not hear me? Was it you're mute, or you're deaf? _Get out_."

Chell feels cornered, pinned between him and the desk. Just to try and get past feels like a mistake, yet obviously the real mistake would be to stay standing here when Wheatley has changed so completely into this beast before her. She can't see even a trace of her meek, gentle brother in that face.

She slides against the wall towards the door, shaking her head in disbelief as if she could stop the tape and put in something with a happy ending. She feels like she's going to vomit as she signs Wheatley's name again.

As soon as she is no longer in the way, he slams his hand down on the desk, his whole body tense, coiled like an animal. Her attempt to get through to him by signing his name does the opposite- in a sudden fit of blind passion, he lashes out at the desk, sending papers and his mug and anything else within reach crashing to the floor in a single, furious threat. " _Now_!"

Chell runs out of the room, leaving the door open behind her in complete abandonment. She has no idea where she's headed, only that she needs to get the hell away from that office. She isn't sure what's stronger; the fear and the horror, or the white-hot _rage_.

Behind her, he gives a scream of fury; if there's words hidden within, they're incoherent. The door slams, the sound echoing like a gunshot throughout the corridors. He doesn't follow her.

Chell races back up to the relaxation chambers, the only thing she knows in this cold grey hell. She doesn't stop until she's reached them, out of breath and burning in her chest, in her throat. Her mind is a whirl, as out of control as he is.

Despite the fact that he's far behind her now, the hall seems to echo with the crash as he'd taken his anger out on his desk, the door and his scream, the horrible tone of his voice. The silence makes these short-term memories all the louder.

She leans back against the wall and wipes her face with her hands. She's cursing herself for letting this happen, but as she comes down from the terror and the start, that gives way very, very quickly to a renewed anger at Aperture, and now, at Wheatley himself.

What the _hell_ was he thinking? Can he seriously have _not known_ how injecting himself was going to make him act, or has he really deluded himself into believing that it doesn't affect him? Did he not care? Was the need to shoot up so pressing that he couldn't have at least told her to leave first?

Chell shivers, and at this point she can't be sure if it's the cold or her anger or that residual fear. It doesn't matter; they're all mingling so much and right now she's such a mess of raw emotion that it's inconsequential. How can he be so _stupid_ , so _careless_? She grits her teeth and thumps her head back against the wall. She wants to give him excuses, to say that maybe he doesn't even know, but she can't ignore what's just happened, that he just did that to her, that he refuses to let her be his ally. Yet, she can't abandon him to the wolves, either, because without the injections he is Wheatley, and without Wheatley, she would be very much lost.

Would he have hurt her? It's hard to question, but either answer is hard to accept, too. At least it can be conceded that he chased her out instead of starting the vicious fight he was on the cusp of, but that doesn't win him a lot of points, given the context. No, not in the _least_ ; Chell is still reeling, and his face in rage is still stuck in her mind's eye like a ghost image over her reality. Recorded, it stays sickeningly close, a reminder of why she came like a hurricane to Aperture in the first place. Yet, she has no idea where to go from here. She can't return to the office, she can't wander off where Caroline might catch sight of her. She's like a rat in a river, or stuck on fast-forward.

At least not many people are likely to come up here, allowing her a little time to recover herself. If she doesn't find a way to get him back up to the surface, what will happen to them? To him, and to her?

She can't even guess. All that she can say for sure is that Wheatley is only going to get worse from here, more aggressive, more tired, more lost. She kind of visualizes herself running around the facility in the shadows, living up to their surname to become a human rat. That's not a possibility, but it's what comes to mind. She sighs and sinks to the ground. She might as well take the opportunity to rest, because goodness knows she needs it after that. Her heart is still racing.

The quiet of the hallway seems to stretch the minutes into hours, especially after Wheatley's outburst. It's possible she sits there for any length of time at all.

Then come the footsteps. And there's nowhere to hide.

Chell scrambles to her feet, eyes wide and fierce. She doesn't know what's coming, she's sure she can't fight it, but she's going to face whomever it is standing. Her heart is pounding. She prays it isn't Wheatley.

Whomever this person is, they're whistling as they come closer and closer. And then they round the corner, and they stop, both in movement and in sound, the whistle trailing off somewhere. It's a man, expression surprised and a little confused; he has a National Geographic with the NASA logo on the front tucked under one arm, and a coffee in his hand.

Short, chubby, calm, and definitely not Wheatley in any way.

"Hey, lady," he says, after a second's worth of awkward startled silence.

Chell blinks. The greeting is very strange, unexpected. Her posture relaxes, her feet come closer together. She doesn't quite know how to respond to him, only to note that, all in all, he does not appear threatening (although looks account for little in Aperture, she thinks).

After this hesitation is up, she gives him a little wave of the sort where your whole hand goes side to side on the wrist.

He lifts his hand and returns the wave, though his own movements are small in comparison. Another awkward moment's silence follows, before finally he says what's on her mind. "You're not Wheatley."

She shakes her head hesitantly in agreement. Neither one of them is Wheatley. Thank goodness.

He walks a little closer. He seems to have decided that he has nothing to fear, but maybe one or two things to be cautious about. "So... who are you?"

Chell fishes her phone out of her pocket with what's beginning to become a practiced hand. She opens her speech app and has it answer, "I am Chell. I am the residential caretaker's new aide."

"Wheatley finally got an assistant?" The man asks, surprised. He also looks a little worried. Does he recognize her name? "...Oh. Where is he?"

Chell frowns with concern of her own and hurriedly shakes her head. Her phone monotonously answers, "He's busy."

"Oh." He bumps his fists awkwardly against his thighs once, twice, three times, as he looks for a way to reply to this. It's not hard to see he's not exactly an expert at social interactions- beyond that, it's readily apparent that her answer has troubled him. "What are you doing?"

This question leaves Chell feeling a bit out of her element herself, although she is much quicker to hide it, and far more adept at doing so. Instead, she takes to her phone again, and seizes on the discomfort he's displaying with her response to the previous question. "I'm taking a break. You think there's something going on with Wheatley, don't you?"

"Wrong?" He seems pretty taken aback, not just troubled, but also surprised and confused that she should ask. "What do you mean? Didn't you just get here? I thought you were new. Do you know him already?"

Gauging his reaction, Chell considers what angle to play this at. As awkward as he is, after all, he's clearly no fool. Her phone replies, "I did just get here today. Yes. But something seems wrong with him. I would think that even if I hadn't met him before, though I have, once or twice. He seems off. Don't you think?"

His brow furrows slightly. It's hard to tell if he believes her or not, and he is quiet for a few moments again, shifting from one foot to the other in decision. "When have you met him before?"

"At a party. He recommended Aperture to me," Chell's phone app answers, ready for this follow-up question. She makes sure to look at him whenever she isn't paying attention to the screen, trying to sell the latest in her series of small cons.

"A party? Wheatley?" This doesn't seem to make him less guarded. If anything, his face sets just a bit, a decision that he doesn't know her- and she doesn't know Wheatley -well enough to say anything. "Well... I haven't noticed anything. He's pretty much the way he always is."

Chell frowns at this. She has been to small parties with Wheatley, with him trying to be all impressive to the other guests for half an hour or so and then getting bored of the affair and signing back and forth with her over all the food they got from the buffet like it was the secret language of siblings. She doesn't see what a stretch it is to say she could have met him at one. But she supposes that he doesn't frequent them, especially not without _her_ , and as far as lies go it was pretty _cliché_.

"You seemed worried, though," she tries.

"I'm always worried," he says with an anxious little chuckle. "Why are you so interested in Wheatley if you barely know him, lady?"

Chell is beginning to feel a little worried herself. "I was just concerned, he just seems kind of... weird."

"Don't gossip," the strange man admonishes, and he takes a step back as if he's just remembered something important he needs to do. "I'm gonna go."

Chell swallows, feeling a drop in her stomach. There's something she doesn't like about this sudden attempt to disengage, and that something feels like an encore appearance from GLaDOS to her, which is the _last_ thing she needs. "Weren't you looking for Wheatley? I didn't catch your name, by the way. I gave you mine."

"Oh! It's, uh, Neil," he says, and, through force of habit too strong to deny, he moves towards her again to offer his hand for a shake. "I'll find Wheatley later, he's always around here somewhere."

Chell accepts his hand and shakes it firmly. This leaves her momentarily without the power of speech, and that moment feels quite long.

When it ends, she takes to the phone almost immediately. "Neil. You know Wheatley well?" She's heard the name. He's mentioned it before.

"Well- yes," he admits, though not quite comfortable doing so. He shoves his hands in the pockets of the NASA bomber jacket he's wearing. "He's a good friend."

When Wheatley has mentioned a man named Neil- Dr. Apollo -he's mentioned a scientist who is a little chubby (check), who has round glasses (check), and who is always wearing something with the NASA logo on it (check). He's described Neil as reserved, but nonetheless as babbling as a brook, and nearly _obsessed_ with space. They play checkers together on downtime, and both spend a lot of free moments together with two other friends Wheatley has described. They've worked around each other for a long time.

Chell sucks in her lower lip and nods. This isn't easy, so she has to take a moment and prepare herself, drawing in a deep breath before taking to her phone. "Yeah. I thought so. Listen. You're worried about him, right? You want to help him get better, don't you?"

Neil fidgets even more, letting the questions drag in the air for so long that it's almost as if he hasn't heard them. When finally he speaks, it's in what tries to be a challenging tone of voice. "You're his sister, aren't you?"

Chell can't deny it, and she was honestly leading up to it anyway, given that Neil is known to her as a friend and could serve as a potential ally in getting Wheatley the hell out of this place, and so she nods.

He relaxes visibly, as if a huge weight has been taken away from him. Suddenly he seems much more willing to be in proximity to her. "Oh, thank goodness. Then- you should come with me, we should probably let the guys in on this conversation."

Chell moves to follow him, but with a look of slight concern on her face. "Guys?" her phone asks. She hopes that he means the other two friends of Wheatley's.

"Rick and Paris," he clarifies, asking with a glance whether the names are familiar to her.

Recognition flashes in her eyes, and she nods again. These are names she knows, and in this context she knows them immediately, without the delay that met Neil.

She is grateful that her missteps with him haven't caused her _or_ Wheatley too much trouble. Still, she had to be cautious. Aperture, she's finding, is far more a forbidding and wicked place than she ever could have imagined, even with all the trouble it's been causing her brother.

Neil returns the nod, and turns his gaze back to the hall ahead. His footfalls are loud on the metal grill that makes up the floor in this part of the facility. He doesn't say much as they go, and he doesn't share his thoughts, whatever they may be.

Chell wonders more and more about those thoughts as she follows him, about whether they are on her or her brother. She is full of nervous energy, putting her on edge. She wants to say something to him, but although her thumb lingers on the screen of her phone, no words come to mind.

It seems so peculiar that this should be her first time meeting Neil, or Rick, or Paris. Shouldn't they have come over at some point? Shouldn't she have been introduced to them?

It really seems odd, now that she's looking back on it, that she shouldn't have met three of Wheatley's closest friends. He's talked about them before; it isn't as if they're a secret to her.

Neil has pulled out his phone, and is sending a text, not really looking where he's going but nonetheless managing not to run into anything.

It's kind of impressive, actually, the way he just keeps walking almost blindly. Chell is distracted just long enough to wonder if he ever bumps into things like that, or if he's just really that good at texting. Of course, then she's right back to wondering what it is about the scientists that makes them such good friends with Wheatley and why it seems they never interact outside of work.

At length he pockets the phone, and a minute later he stops at a door. They're at the far end of the residential sector, as far away from Wheatley as they can be and still be in the same wing. When he pushes open the door, it looks like a small staff room- a couple sofas, a table and chair, a microwave, a sink, all crammed into a space not quite big enough for them. Nobody is in there, thankfully, so Neil goes in first. "Paris and Rick are coming. They'll be just a second."

Chell nods silently and, without giving it much thought, puts her hand up to her mouth and moves it outward in an arc. She takes a moment to look around before sitting on one of the sofas, feeling out of place despite being dressed for her surroundings.

Neil stays standing, clearly too restless to make himself much more at home. He paces a little, torn between looking at her and looking anywhere but. There's a painting on the wall, but pausing to look at the art does not appear to reinvigorate him.

Chell isn't sure whether she should try to initiate some interaction with him or just wait until Paris and Rick arrive. It is supposed to be only a second, isn't it? Yet he just looks so damn _awkward_ that she kind of wants to help him feel at least a _little_ more comfortable around her, especially since she needs his help (and she's still got to smooth over having lied to him). She only doesn't know what to say that would be any good to him.

He fidgets as they wait- specifically, with a little keychain of the moon he's drawn from his pocket. By the time she thinks of anything she can say, somebody is already approaching the door, drawing Neil's complete attention.

Chell looks to the door at once, the same as Neil. She remains sitting as she waits to see which of the two scientists is on the other side, if indeed it is one of them.

It's... them. Probably. But the wrong number of people enter. The first of them is tall and skinny, wearing glasses and a lab coat, and his eyes go right to Chell, keen with interest of a scientific kind. The second is dark and handsome, his interest perhaps a bit less scientific. The third seems confused and surprised, as if he doesn't know why all these people are congregating in the break room.

Neil looks surprised too. "Oh- hey, Virgil? What, uh, what are you doing in here?"

Perhaps it's to be expected that the man who seems confused is the one who looks over to Neil. Virgil, he must be, is fairly handsome, with pretty eyes and an attractive dusting of stubble. He would appeal to someone who was not Chell. However, the nervous concern in his features is what's most striking now, as he looks from Neil to give a once-over of the room and then shrugs exaggeratedly. There's a paper bag in one of his hands.

"Am I not supposed to be in the break room where we take breaks?" he asks, and it sounds like he's trying not to sound derisive, but the words themselves can't help but to be. He has a gently pronounced accent that Chell can't immediately place. "I came to eat lunch, what are you doing in here, Neil?"

Neil, already revealing himself to be a man of transparent emotion, blushes. However, he isn't the one who answers- instead, it's the tall and dark of the group that speaks up, in a rolling Southern accent.

"Now V, I'm sure what Neil meant to ask is somethin' more like- why you're taking lunch all the way down here, instead of upstairs," says the man, diplomatic but a bit defensive. He's on Neil's side. "You know, a lil closer you where you work, 's'all."

"I happen to be doing work down here today," Virgil answers haughtily, apparently catching the other man's defensiveness. He isn't _confrontational_ , though; it's more like he's answering from a greater position than the Southern man. Like he's put out to be having this conversation at all. "So I didn't think it was necessary, you know, to go all the way back upstairs just to eat. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"Alright, no need for the attitude," the Southern man says, backing off, but not without the faintest etch of a snarl in Virgil's direction. He turns to Neil, and he gestures to Chell, and Neil gives a helpless shrug, glancing pointedly towards the extra member of their party. It looks like a whole conversation is taking place between them.

Chell is more than familiar with nonverbal conversations. She knows what they're getting at, but she knows too that if they all left, it would look pretty suspicious, and so she stays where she's seated. Neil is right, what can they do? She can't exactly get up and introduce herself, can she?

Virgil shakes his head as if he can't _believe_ the Southern man's rudeness, but he says nothing of it. Instead, he sits down; not at the table, but on the couch directly across from Chell. He gives her a polite nod (which she returns) as he opens his bag and extracts its contents, which come to a fork and napkin, a plastic container, and a small thermos onto the cushion next to him. There is a particular method to it that she watches without really meaning to; the man presses down the bag, puts it across his lap, and then puts the container on the bag with the napkin just under the corner and the fork on top. The thermos stays where it is.

Only when this odd procedure is completed does he seem to take any particular notice of her. "Oh, I haven't met you have I? A pleasure. My name is Virgil. Computer sciences. You've come as part of the testing initiative, yes? Or maintenance, perhaps?"

"Was wonderin' that myself," the Southern man, turning to look at Chell, and missing how Neil groans in dismay at the direction the group's meeting has inevitably gone in. How could he be so careless as to highlight her presence in such a way, with Virgil still in the room? He comes a little closer, his walk a swagger. "Not often a lady as fine as yourself comes 'round. Trust me- if they did, I'd notice. Go by the name of Rick; pleasure's all mine. Don't mind V here, he thinks he's a big shot. Seems you already know Neil, and four-eyes here is Paris. That's all the names out of the way, I think."

He doesn't ask her to introduce herself. Maybe not as careless as he appears.

Virgil wrinkles his nose, and Paris rolls his eyes. It seems like neither one of them prefers the introduction Rick has deemed fit to give them.

"Virgil," the former corrects, shaking his head. He leans forward over the container in his lap and offers his hand. Chell leans further forward to give it a rather firm shake, which seems to satisfy him, for as soon as she's done he leans back again.

"People who spend more time studying are more likely to need glasses due to eye strain," Paris chimes in, coming around to stand behind Chell's couch across from Rick.

She's starting to feel a little uncomfortable with all the attention. She doesn't mind Paris, but instead looks dubiously up at Rick, whose swagger Virgil did not sufficiently distract her from, and who is much too comfortable with her on first meeting. Does he even know her _name_? Even if he doesn't ask, she's afraid that Virgil yet might.

Neil fidgets, as if he's uncomfortable with the attention she's getting, too. He's still messing with his little keychain, which seems to calm him down a bit- but it definitely isn't a solution for the problem at hand. The addition of an uninvited guest to the party has added a great amount of stress to what might be a simple conversation. Who knows what they can say in front of him? Even the fact that she's Wheatley's sister is a secret for now.

For that matter, what did Neil tell them already? Was it simply a summons, or do they already know her name and her relation to the caretaker? And what do they know about what's going on with Wheatley?

"People who spend less time studying are less likely to be nerds," Rick says, despite the fact that Chell already knows he's also a scientist. He leans his hip against the armrest of the sofa Virgil is sitting on, affecting an air of someone who thinks he looks cool. He does actually look kind of cool.

"But more likely to be bad at their job, if they're a scientist," Paris counters with a huff.

Virgil gives Rick a look out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't let him distract him from eating. He's very quiet about it, polite, but that doesn't help the stifling effect he's unwittingly brought about of having an uninvited party in the room who might compromise their efforts.

What are they supposed to do about it? They can't really just loiter around until Virgil isn't on lunch anymore- eventually, somebody will notice their collective absence.

"I am _great_ at my job," Rick counters, folding his arms. He doesn't really look that offended.

"I assume 'great' is being used subjectively?" Paris asks dryly. Chell glances up at him, since he's standing so close. He is, she thinks, _exactly_ what one pictures when asked to imagine a scientist.

" _Objectively_ ," Rick corrects, a little haughtily. "You're the one that has to use technical modifiers to make yourself sound smarter."

Neil, meanwhile, takes the opportunity of their distraction to sidle over, taking a seat at Chell's side. He lowers his voice to speak to her quietly, masking his words from Virgil under Paris and Rick's good-natured bickering. "I didn't know he'd come all the way down here. ...He's not a bad guy, but..."

Chell cuts her eyes to him, but tries not to look suspicious. She notes that Virgil is looking at the two bickering scientists, rather than at her and Neil, and so she makes a gesture to Neil to continue, kind of a shrug with one hand raised. She's pretty sure he doesn't understand sign language, after all, so she's got to make due with gestures.

"He plays straight," Neil says after a moment of twisting his lips, voice somehow becoming even quieter than before. He looks uncomfortable, as if it causes him great distress to gossip about a coworker like this. It probably does. "He even works on the GLaDOS project. Mr. Johnson thinks highly of him. Not that I think he'd go parroting everything we say, but I don't know if I want to talk about Wheatley in front of him, is all."

GLaDOS _project_? This gets Chell's attention; does this mean that he built GLaDOS, or helped to do so? All the questions she'd previously had no time or need to ask about the pale woman come creeping up on her now, and it's almost a struggle to keep from getting distracted by them. Yet, the very mention of Wheatley by name is enough to keep her on track. Unless she's given reason to believe it has something to do with the lockdown and massively increased workloads, she can't focus on what Aperture's projects are right now, no matter how unsettling they may be.

She nods her understanding to Neil.

She doesn't hear exactly what Rick and Paris are saying, but the nature of their bickering seems to have shifted, because now Paris is snapping at Rick. Virgil is getting visibly irritated.

Maybe their squabbling will be enough to convince him to find somewhere a bit more peaceful to have his lunch- somewhere that isn't here in this room with this company. It doesn't seem to be working, though. In fact, it just seems to be making Virgil _more_ determined both to take his lunch right where he's at, and to enjoy it.

"Would you two children sit down?" he interrupts, shaking his head. "And there's a lady present. You ought to be ashamed." As if to underscore the point, he unscrews the cap of his thermos and takes a sip from it. That he is perfectly ready to sit here all night is readily apparent. In a way, it's kind of impressive.

Rick puts his hands on his hips, sputters for a moment, and then draws himself up. However, before he can speak, Neil takes a turn stepping in, trying a different tactic.

"So, how's Mel?" He asks Virgil, hurrying before one of them can issue a retort. "Usually you take all your breaks in the company of lady fair."

Virgil chuckles, and there's a distinct fondness in his eyes although he waves his free hand dismissively. "Oh, you know. Can't always get to work together. It's just that I was needed down here and she wasn't, that's all. She's doing fine, though." he answers, and puts the cap back on his drink. He sets it against his hip on the opposite side this time, between himself and the armrest. It seems that he has already forgotten about Rick.

"Glad to hear," Neil says, and Rick folds his arms but doesn't interject. "What have they got you doing down here? They don't tend to move you around that I've noticed."

"Nah, it's still the same project," Virgil answers, a little more at ease now. It seems that Neil has hit upon just the right subjects to distract him from Rick and Paris, _and_ from Chell. "They brought me down here to do some work on the servers. They were having trouble handing the load."

Distraction is good- but it's not the ideal result, which is finding a way to make him leave so that they can talk privately. "Sounds pretty important."

"Of course! If it wasn't, I'd still be upstairs." Virgil laughs. There's a distinct difference, Chell notices, between the way he's responding to Neil and the way he'd responded to Rick and Paris— and, well, to Neil when he'd first addressed him.

She also notices that the distraction, while helpful, is also having the adverse effect of making him take longer to eat.

Rick seems to be noticing the same thing, giving a soft, impatient grumble under his breath that says _he_ isn't on lunch, and doesn't have the time to be loitering. "Say, you know what? I think my break's about to be over. You too, right, Paris?"

It takes Paris a moment, likely because he's still in such a foul humor over his argument with Rick, not to mention the _admonishment_ from Virgil. "No, I'm not..." then he pauses, and realization can be seen clearly on his features. " _Oh_! Right, I think you are right, Rick. Yes, now that you mention it, my break is almost over."

"Come on, we should be heading back," Rick says, tense expression becoming near tangible relief when Paris catches on. He turns to Chell, gestures with a hand. "Care to walk with us, little lady? I'd love to get to know you a bit better."

Chell nods and gets up to follow.

"Oh, that's... too bad," Virgil says, sounding genuinely _disappointed_ to see the party leaving. He doesn't so much look it, though. It's like he's making an effort not to. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you." he nods to Chell.

Neil gives a surprised look, but rises to his feet as well. He pauses to give Virgil a smile; he seems more friendly with him than the other members of the little party do. "Maybe I'll see you later, since you'll be down here for a little while."

"Yeah, sure thing," Virgil replies. He shrugs. "No big deal, though," he adds, then resumes eating.

Chell gives him a brief wave and leaves the room with Rick, Paris tailing just behind. The latter seems to largely ignore Virgil (and Neil, for that matter).

Neil seems a little antsy about it, but leaves with them, taking a place to Chell's side opposite the other two.

They're several steps away from the door before Rick breaks the silence between them, glancing back at the door, and then down at Chell. "So... anybody wanna tell me who this lovely young lady might be? And why it was so important we come meet her _right now_?"

Chell crosses her arms and tilts her head irritably at him, not terribly fond of being referred to as "this lovely young lady." She doesn't take her phone back out just then.

Paris glances over at Neil. "I was actually wondering the same thing," he adds.

"This," Neil says, pausing for emphasis, and then getting overwhelmed by his own pause and grabbing his keychain from his pocket, "is Chell."

"Chell?" Rick echoes, surprised. "You mean like Wheatley's sister?"

Paris's face goes slack. "Is _that_ who you are?" he asks Chell.

Chell nods, her posture relaxing somewhat. She feels like there is a strange importance to the reveal, a weight to the connection. There is, in a way. There is power in knowing that enables her to gain the help of these three men, and which could put her in _danger_ should the wrong person find it out.

Rick whistles in astonishment, looking down at her with something new in his expression. "You're even prettier than I imagined you'd be. But why on _Earth_ -"

"-Isn't it obvious?" Neil interjects at once. "I don't think Wheatley's had surface clearance for two or three _days_. I didn't even know that was a thing in our security system that you could _lose_."

Chell blinks in surprise at Rick's words, her ruddy cheeks slightly darkened. Neil's interruption clears this away, and her expression becomes very serious again.

"They've been doing something to him," Paris says, tapping his chin. "Running some kind of experiment or punishment. Not only has he not been allowed out, he's been acting strangely." He turns his attention to Chell. "It was very brave of you to come all the way down here _for_ him. It's not likely you can do anything for him, however."

"But _what_ , exactly?" Rick says, almost stepping on the end of Paris's speech. "I get you're right, but what would they do to a guy Mr. Johnson ain't even willing to replace? He even managed to talk his way into gettin' opted _out_ of the testing initiative. Haven't they got enough guinea pigs?"

"That doesn't take 'punishment' off the table," Neil points out nervously. "Chell... do you know anything we don't?"

Chell shakes her head anxiously. _He's missing and taking meth_ , she signs, so overcome with the implications of what Neil and especially Paris have said that she forgets herself for a moment. She thumps the heel of her hand against her forehead and reaches for her phone.

Rick is watching her intently as she does this, as though trying to puzzle out the signs, but if he is able to understand them, he doesn't say so. If only Wheatley could be here- he's so quick at translating for her that he's often saying the words out loud before she's even finished signing the sentence.

Chell wakes her phone, app still open and ready on the screen when it's unlocked. Her thumb feels reluctant to spell out what she needs to tell them. In the back of her mind, she wonders if Rick understood any of what she signed. She swallows as she presses the button to have the phone read out the long version:

"I know that he is missing and that he is taking meth which was given to him by Mister Johnson."

" _Meth_ ," Neil repeats, in a struck, strangled tone of voice. The word wants to be a question, but instead it's a statement, the horrified single-syllable of things that didn't make sense before now coming together.

"Mr. Johnson?" Rick says, his expression similarly stunned, but his voice louder, angry. "Are you sure about that?"

"Why in the world would Mr. Johnson do that?" Paris asks, seeming almost parts shocked and incredulous. "What would he have to gain from it?"

Chell draws in her lower lip as she inputs her next message. "He gave it to him to make him work harder and now Wheatley is addicted and thinks it's like an extreme version of coffee," her phone stated monotonously. "He got very angry. He doesn't want to acknowledge the side effects at all."

"Extreme coffee? Look, I get Wheatley has kind of a reputation for being kind of..." Rick gestures furiously with one hand.

"Spacey?" Neil volunteers.

"Yeah, that's it. But he's not a moron, I _know_ he's not a moron," the taller man continues, becoming increasingly agitated. "There's no way he actually believes that."

"It's a side-effect of the drug," Paris states with a sort of know-it-all authority. He looks incredibly anxious to be talking like that, though he gestures proudly to suit. "It's got his brain chemistry working completely differently."

Rick looks at him almost accusingly, all full of feelings with nowhere to properly direct them. "Why is he on lockdown, then? Wouldn't having to come back for the meth make that unnecessary? Why keep him from going home at night?"

Paris shrugs helplessly, intimidated by the force of Rick's emotion. "I, um... I'm afraid _that_ is something that only Mr. Johnson would know for certain." he is reluctant to admit.

"It doesn't make sense." Chell's phone agrees.

"Do you know anything else?" Neil implores of Chell, rolling his keychain in his hand. "Has Wheatley said anything to you? Where is he right now, have you already talked to him?"

Chell lowers her head, her expression falling with it. She has her phone answer, "He is busy right now." The same as she'd told Neil on their initial meeting. She fidgets a little with the phone and tries to decide what else she can say to questions like these.

"Busy," Rick says tensely, picking up on _exactly_ what that probably implies in the context of this conversation. He looks away, like he's considering going straight to Wheatley's office to find him right now.

Paris's brow furrows, and it looks as much like he wants to block Rick's path as it does like Rick is going to take off, his muscles tense as he shifts his weight a little towards the space in front of other man.

"Yes. Busy." Chell answers. She hesitates, scratches at some imaginary stain on her screen. When her phone speaks again, it has a lot to say. "I just came from talking to him when I met you Neil. We checked a problem with the oxygen. It isn't flowing in the empty relaxation chambers. He told Mr. Johnson about it already. He didn't take it seriously. I don't know if it has something to do with this."

Rick is actually changing his course a little, not enough to break away from the group, but enough that he's clearly still considering it.

"There's always something like that going on around here," Neil says anxiously. "Some this breaking, some that doing weird things, some those people moving around. It's really hard to decide what has anything to do with what else."

"That is very true! Most likely it has nothing to do with any of this," Paris is quick to agree. "We should really concern ourselves more with this drug problem and why it's happened in the first place."

Chell looks unsure.

"I'm gonna go check on him," Rick decides abruptly, pulling away from the others with a purposeful stride. "I'll catch up with you beautiful people later."

Paris makes a go to catch him, but of course, Rick has planned for this. He is unable to step in the way in time, and curses under his breath as the other man effortlessly breaks away and walks off.

Chell does not try to follow him, unwilling to confront Wheatley again so long as he is in the state that he is. It's a split-second too late that she realizes she should warn him to this, and her phone says "Wait" just after that; a statement rather than a call, with no force in it whatsoever.

"Wait!" Neil echoes, with a lot more force, but this too is unheeded, and he hangs back by Chell's side, glancing at her with an anxious flutter to his movements. "...I guess he's headed to Wheatley's office. Is there any chance Wheatley's not in there?"

Chell shakes her head with a concerned frown. Wheatley is most _definitely_ still in there, probably still seething and certainly still under the immediate effects of the poison he's put in his veins.

Paris is reluctant to follow as well, and he storms back to stand across from Neil. "That idiot is going to do nothing but cause trouble for himself," he grumbles.

"We don't know that," Neil says, still looking to Chell, perhaps for guidance or reassurance. "Anyway, anyway, we can't really do anything to stop Rick once he gets something in his head."

Paris pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're right about _that_! Huh!" He huffs.

Chell can't help but to think that the four of them seem awfully tight knit for Wheatley to speak of Neil, Paris, and Rick so rarely.

It's so strange. Maybe it's because they have to do with Aperture, and he dislikes talking too much about his job, especially lately.

Neil is watching her think. "Do you have any ideas? About what we can do for him? Wheatley. That is. Not Rick."

Chell exhales softly and shakes her head. She has her phone answer, "I just know that he is in a bad way right now and that we need to get him out of here and away from Mr. Johnson."

"You're right about that," he says, and then, a moment later, "what about you, though? How did you even get down here?"

"First I snuck in and then I got a job." Chell informs him, trying to look proud in spite of the phone's monotonous voice and the anxiety pooling and twisting in her belly.

"How did you get a job? What sort of a job is it?" Paris asks, almost _suspiciously_.

"Caretaker's assistant. I told Mr. Johnson that he inspires me and asked him to tell me what an amazing innovator he is." This actually _does_ still make her proud, if not as much as it had when she'd told Wheatley the same.

Paris nods, satisfied by the answer. "Well... that makes sense."

"Wow," Neil says, looking from her back to Paris. "So... you weren't lying about being Wheatley's assistant now? Isn't that kind of weird? How does he feel about it? Are you actually hired or did Mr. Johnson just decide to accept your presence?"

Chell shrugs and shakes her head. "I guess he's just accepting my presence. I know a lot about Aperture's history with shower curtains and asbestos now. And science. Of course."

"Of course," Neil agrees. He doesn't seem sure what to say after that, in spite of his babbling only a moment ago.

"It's a rich and... rather convoluted history," Paris comments, feeling almost as out of place as Neil. It seems that all three of them have been left at a loss for words, and their thoughts show in the discomfort on their faces.


	4. Trysts

At this time, Rick is not having that issue. He is striding to Wheatley's office with all the force of a bull with a target in mind, or rather, a specific goal. That being reaching Wheatley as quickly as possible without breaking into a full-on run. He is unusually focused as he makes his way through the corridors and down through the residential area, stopping only once he has reached the door to the office to announce his presence with a knock.

The knock receives a startlingly immediate response, and not at all a pleasant sounding one. The voice is distinctly Wheatley's, but the tone is sharp, and he doesn't even bother checking to see who's there. "Not taking any visitors right now, mate."

"It's Rick!" the scientist calls; undeterred, but not unshaken by the harshness of that tone. It doesn't sound right. It isn't _Wheatley_ , yet the voice can belong to no one else. It makes Rick feel ill at ease, oddly out of his element. "C'mon, Wheatley, open up."

"I said I'm not taking any bloody visitors," Wheatley retorts, tone not softening in the least when Rick identifies himself. It's arguable that he actually processed the greeting at all.

Rick sighs. He puts his fingertips to the door and punches in the passcode with his thumb. "C'mon, Wheatley, don't be like this. I'm comin' in to check on you, I understand you're not doin' so hot."

"Get lost, _Rick_ ," the other man snarls from beyond the door. At least that's confirmation that he's aware enough to know who he's talking to, not that it's a lot of comfort. "I don't need anybody else babysitting me."

"I ain't coming to babysit, I'm coming to make sure you're doin' all right." Rick replies as he lets himself in.

"Sounds like the same thing." The room is dark; the lights are off. Only the computer monitor casts its glow on the room's occupant, who is leaning back in his chair with his arms behind his head and one leg folded over the other. The way the light catches his eyes highlights the blue of them. "And I don't need either."

"Wheatley, you've always been one of the nicest guys I've ever known," Rick says as he approaches, a knot in his belly. "You know nobody's here to hurt you or nothin'."

"Well, thanks for that," Wheatley says, his cold gaze snapping from the middle distance to Rick. "But I didn't ask. Reckon least you could do is listen when I talk, right? _Get out_."

Rick draws in a shaky breath. He neither wants to leave nor to agitate Wheatley and make things worse. He doesn't know how to handle this. He doesn't know what to do.

"Hey, I'm listening," he assures him, showing his palms in surrender and stepping backward. "And I see you don't need me to check up on ya. What's gotcha so upset, though? Something, uh, happen, buddy?"

"Right, sure sounds like it." His arms have unfolded, hands now on the armrests of his seat, and it looks like to come nearer to him would be a grave error indeed. "Clearly I am not in the mood to talk about it."

"OK, fair enough," Rick says assuagingly. "Anything I can do?"

"Did Chell put you up to this?" He counters instead of giving an answer. "Sending you in here after me? Because neither of you think I can take care of myself?"

"No, ain't got nothing to do with Chell," Rick answers honestly, shrugging nonthreateningly. "I just wanted to see you."

"Don't patronize me, mate," Wheatley retorts sharply, his anger not to be deterred. "What did you want to see me for?"

Rick keeps his cool the best he can. "You're my friend, isn't that enough?"

"Oh, fuck off with that." The more Rick tries to be soothing and level headed, the more Wheatley sounds like he's looking for a fight. "I know what you're about. Can't a man relax in peace?"

Rick sighs, standing down. It is so frustrating to be so powerless. "Sure, sure you can. I'm sorry I bothered you."

"No, you know what? I bet you are. You selfish man. You only want one thing from me, I'm not dumb enough not to notice." Now he is on the offensive, sitting up with a devil of a look in his eye.

This catches Rick _completely_ by surprise. "I, er... What?" He was almost out the door, unprepared for a second wind, and if this was no longer about him or Chell caring about Wheatley, then he couldn't guess what else the other man could be talking about.

"You're kidding me, aren't you? I _know_ what you're about." Wheatley gives a clipped, humorless laugh. He's leaning forward in his seat, gripping the arm rest with one hand and gesturing with the other. It's possible for Rick to identify some of the gestures as signs. "Never understand what makes me so irresistible to you. I get I'm something of a looker, but aren't lots of people? Is that all there is to it? God knows it's not my glowing personality."

Rick's face reddens. He takes a step back into the room, the door behind him still closed. "No, that's not all there is to it at all!" he protests, feeling like he's putting his head too close to an oven. "Wheatley, you're as cute and thoughtful as they come."

"If you're looking to sleep with a body, the least you can do is be honest about it, love." He signs along with the last word, but it isn't the word _love_ , or a word Rick knows- the finger sign for an _X_ tapped twice to his cheek. "I'd appreciate it."

The reddening deepens, until Rick's cheeks are the colour of beets. They feel so hot that Rick could swear that he had burned them after all. "I've _been_ honest with you," he manages. "I don't just want that, I want to, you know, do _all_ that kinda thing with you. Going out under the the stars and holding hands, all of it. I just thought you weren't into me."

" _God_ , you make yourself sound like such a romantic. You greet people by saying _hello gorgeous_ ; that's basically the antithesis of romantic." It's so unreal to hear him talking like that. Does any of this reflect what he normally thinks, or is it all just his altered state?

It's so hard to say in the moment. Naturally, it could really just be the drugs talking, but what it's just his honest feelings coming out uninhibited? Rick has honestly never felt so ashamed of himself before. It's strange and ugly, leaving him exposed and open.

"No harm's meant by it," he tells Wheatley. "It's just flirtin', it's all in good fun. I really don't mean to hurt anybody. What, are you... I dunno, does it upset you? What're you after? That I should stop doin' it to you, or stop doin' it to _other people_?"

"You're as blind as they bloody come. I don't know; what do you expect me to say here? That I'm actually madly jealous of you? I have bigger _fucking_ things on my mind, you know? Haven't I? Not that you would know." His voice is full of biting venom, anger like this man shouldn't be capable of.

Rick swallows and shakes his head. "All I know is you got drugs in your veins and a twin sister to take care of, and that bastard Johnson ain't lettin' you out for air. At this point, I've got no _idea_ what you think of me anymore and honestly, you're right, it really _isn't_ important."

Wheatley's lip curls in undisguised agitation. His nails leave marks in the armrest. "Course she ran off and started telling people first thing, didn't she? Did she just- immediately tell you everything she knew?"

"No, Wheatley, we've _known_ something was up!" Rick cries. He could _kick_ himself for his misstep, but there's no retaking it now. Damn him, damn it all, damn Cave Johnson most of all. He just hopes Wheatley doesn't assume that he knows about where he got the drugs from. "Chell's not tellin' nobody nothin'!"

Wheatley laughs, and the mirthless sound bleeds into his words. "You're such a bloody terrible liar! You really do think I'm a _moron_ , don't you? You didn't just casually assume drugs were involved, did you, mate? Neil and Paris too, I'm betting?"

"Wheatley, why don't you go back to your relaxin'?" Rick says, his voice strained, taking a step back towards the door again.

"Here I thought you wanted to talk to me," Wheatley says. He seems to dare Rick to leave. "Why don't you come have a seat?"

Rick feels like a cricket in a spider's web; bigger and stronger than the spider, but no less trapped and no less _helpless_ against its venom. He furrows his brow anxiously. "I thought you didn't want to talk to me."

"Who said I do now?" Wheatley counters, lifting his chin challengingly.

Rick lifts his hands to either side of his head, palm up in a gesture of surrender. He comes over to sit, his heart pounding in his chest.

Slowly, Wheatley sits back, eyes as fixed as a cat on Rick. "What else did she tell you?"

Rick sighs. "That's honestly 'bout it. She was hidin' out scared and I let her know I was a friend. To both of you." It wasn't really a lie, just a convenient omission of Neil's and Paris's roles in this. If he could just leave them out of the conversation, that was two people he wasn't accidentally throwing under the bus, anyway, which meant that they stood a chance of not being treated as suspects by Wheatley.

"You're full of it," Wheatley says coldly, more and more frustrated by the other man's attempts at pacifism.

"What? It's true. She was scared and I knew you. She needed help." Rick insists. "She told me you were takin' this drug."

Wheatley looks away, perhaps briefly entertaining guilt, or perhaps just too angry to retort at first. "Am I just being paranoid? I know you're leaving things out on purpose. I don't like being talked about at the best of times."

Rick affects a worried, apologetic smile. "I know, Wheats. But that's all the story there is."

"Then tell me another one," Wheatley says, looking back at Rick.

"Sure. What about?" Rick asks, searching in the dark.

"Are you going to tell me what you were hoping to accomplish by coming in here with a guy you _knew_ was on drugs?"

"I was just tryin' to check on you, scout's honour."

"Look." This is said with such a serious inflection, and his eyes are so rich and blue, that it almost sounds like Wheatley is supposed to sound. "I am interested in exactly _two_ things right now, and neither of them have the first bit to do with honor."

"I..." Rick doesn't want to hazard the first guess as to what those two things might be, and so he doesn't. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Wheatley affirms, not looking away from Rick for a moment. "Crazy, isn't it? The whole point is for me to work better, but I don't feel like working at all. I just want to punch somebody over the railing. And now that I've talked about it a bit, I'm pretty warm to the notion of you bedding me. That's two, yeah?"

There's this feeling like all the air has just been sucked out of the room, making it impossible to breathe and causing Rick's ears to pop like when an airplane gains altitude. Rick has never been in an airplane. He's barely even been out of this _state_. He's never felt gravity suddenly change its properties the way it's doing right now, making him heavy and sluggish. He's never had the world miles below him before this moment.

"Oh... yeah." he says, almost a murmur. It's unlike him, the perpetual flirt. This is what he's wanted to hear but not remotely how he wanted to hear it, or when, and context makes the words sound sickening, phrasing makes them dirty.

He's a little confused about it, too. A moment ago Wheatley seemed _disgusted_ with Rick for wanting to have sex with him. Now he says he _wants_ him to? Even what with Wheatley being on drugs, it's enough to give a man whiplash.

Wheatley's body language has changed in that respect, too- he's sitting back, legs apart, leaning his elbow on one of the armrests of his chair. It's as if his whole personality has changed. Of course, in a way, it has. There's that devil of a look in his eye again.

"What'll it be, love?" He makes that sign again, with the _X_ tapped against his cheek.

Any other day, Rick would have been on his knees by now. This isn't any other day.

"What's that sign?" he asks instead, gesturing loosely at Wheatley's hand.

"Means stop wasting my time and do all the dirty things you've always wanted to do to me," Wheatley says impatiently, tilting his head slightly. "Can't be that difficult to translate."

Rick's mouth goes dry. He never could have imagined Wheatley talking like this, and to hear him _actually_ saying these words sounds _surreal_. There's a strange way that the word 'dirty' resonates, too, as if it reflects on his feelings instead of just being a way of sounding sexy. Just one more wrong thing about this whole wrong situation. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

He shakes his head. "Look, I... I'm sorry, Wheats, I just can't do that as it is. I'mma just leave you 'lone to clear your head for a bit, OK? I'll bring you some food and coffee."

"Are you kidding me?" The other man sounds incredulous almost to the point of disgusted. " _Now_ is when you decide to be all concerned about what you _can't_ do? Give me a break, why don't you? This is what you wanted from me. Suddenly you're not interested. Why the hell wouldn't you be interested?"

"Cuz you're outta yer mind on meth!" Rick answers, a little horrified. "You make it sound like I've harassed you, Wheats, give me a _little_ credit!"

Wheatley doesn't give him credit, or an inch; he leans forward threateningly, like he's angling more towards the idea of fighting again. "Now's when you choose to care? Now's when you let it bother you? You didn't even notice before Chell told you. How the fuck do you not notice a body is on drugs? It took her all of a day to figure it out! Does it even bother you _now_ outside of the fact that you think you're above sleeping with me because of it?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, I do not think I'm above sleeping with you, don't get it into your head I think I'm too good or somethin', you just ain't sober!" Rick protests, reeling before the onslaught of these heavy accusations. "I don't... know what to tell you. I knew somethin' was wrong, and I have been tryin' to understand, I just... I mean, you're right, I should've realized or done something, I, I really had no idea!"

"You're goddamn right you should have realized! But did it even make a difference to you?" Wheatley makes a broad, dismissive gesture with both arms. "Get out, then, if you're not interested in what I'm offering, because I have nothing else to offer."

"It... It does make a difference," Rick says as he starts towards the door, still facing Wheatley. "For what it's worth, Wheatley, I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry." This said, he turns around and continues out of the office.

Wheatley grips the armrests of his chair and doesn't say anything, but as soon as the door shuts behind Rick, there is the sound of something smashing into it and shattering, followed by an incoherent cry of frustration and anger.

Rick gasps and flinches. He naturally wheels around to look behind him, but of course he can't see or do anything about this terrible expression of impotent rage. His heart twists in his chest, and he hurries away.

He feels responsible for this mess, as Wheatley has made him so, and he has accepted it. The weight is crushing.

It has been a long time that Rick's worked here, but suddenly the whole facility seems _off_ , like he's lost in an unfamiliar place or time. Does Wheatley really blame him? If so, is he right to? Shouldn't Rick have realized what he was going through?

He'd known that something was wrong, he'd known that Wheatley was keeping too much to himself, that he just wasn't available, that he seemed so much more irritable with him, with Paris— even with Neil. He wasn't acting right, he wasn't acting like _himself_ , and Rick had just let that blow right past him. They all had a lot more work to do since the GLaDOS project got good and started up, and he supposed he'd chalked it up to that. New scientists coming in, Mr. Johnson refusing to hire anybody to help Wheatley out; hell, Rick's had his own hands pretty full on account of Aperture's "bold new direction." He just doesn't know anymore how he didn't _see_ it.

This place seems hellish and labyrinthine, like it doesn't have an exit; only secrets, lies, and manipulation.

These thoughts consume Rick as his feet carry him where they will carry him. How could they not have realized what was going on with Wheatley? How could _he_ not have realized what was going on with Wheatley, claiming as he does to be so infatuated with him, and moreover, being such close friends? Is it really his fault?

He's out of the residential sector before he actually realizes it, back in the flat grey hallways leading up to the test tracks where he and Paris and Neil are all currently stationed.

It's muscle memory that takes him where it will, and he allows it to without mind. As far as scientists working for an insidious, cutting-edge corporation go, he is a surprisingly simple man. His thoughts consume him now, and he can only concentrate on his horrible dilemma. Is it his fault? Well whose else can it be? He can't pawn it off on Paris and Neil, nor indeed Wheatley, who accepted the stuff from someone he'd thought he could _trust_. And yes, it is Cave Johnson's fault, damn that man to the fire, but Rick should have noticed, he should have _known_.

"Rick? Oh, gosh, you startled me!" Neil is standing suddenly in front of Rick, one hand lifted to his chest, amber eyes wide. Rick entered one of the testing labs without even realizing it; it's a relatively small room, containing desks and computers and workbenches, with a window on one side overlooking a test chamber. "I kind of thought you weren't coming back to work. How's Wheatley? Did you see him?"

Rick blinks as if he's only just now seeing Neil, which in a way he is. He sighs and shakes his head with a groan. "Mnnh... He ain't doing great. How's things here? You still got Chell?"

"Yeah; she's down with Paris in the test chamber, he's checking out the paint job they did in there," Neil replies, gesturing towards the observation window. "But tell me about Wheatley. What did he say?"

Rick smiles, melancholy in his eyes despite the sincerity of it. "I'm glad we're all gettin' along," he says, which comes out as a sigh. He reaches up and scratches his beard awkwardly, frustratedly. "He ain't himself. Ain't himself at all. He's so angry, so aggressive... he blames me for not knowing somethin' was wrong... He's so messed up right now."

"Oh. Oh, Rick..." Neil reaches out as if to put a hand on Rick's shoulder, but stops just short, a comforting but not physical gesture. "You know it's nothing you did. It's up to us to help him, but you're not to blame. You know that, don't you?"

Rick shrugs, trying to affect a nonchalant expression. It's eating him up inside. He doesn't know _what_ to believe. "Eh, yeah..." he says noncommittally.

This seems to satisfy Neil, however, who nods and retracts his hand. "Good. We'll work this out somehow. I bet if we can just figure out why he can't go back up to the surface and help him out there, Chell will be able to take care of the rest."

"You're right. It's our responsibility now to get our buddy topside and outta here for good," Rick concludes, folding his arms for effect. He gets a little rejuvenated by the resolution; it's exactly the sort of mission statement he needs.

"That's right!" Neil says encouragingly, snapping his fingers. He hesitates, and then, a moment later, continues in a slightly more subdued tone. "Do you think maybe... we should leave too? It's just a job, I guess. But lately it's really different. Not so simple."

Rick takes this question passionately, using the soundproof nature of the room to his advantage as he makes his case. "Hell yeah I do! I think all five of us need to hightail before you, me, n' Paris end up like Wheatley, and Chell ends up without a brother. We've got options! We can go someplace else, even if the pay ain't as good! We can take up _teachin'_ if worse comes to worst. But... if it comes down to it, I don't know about you, I'll consider it a success if we can just get the Dynamic Duo out."

"Maybe Black Mesa is hiring," Neil jokes, chuckling nervously. "But- you're right, though. I was just supposed to be working with the moon rocks. I didn't sign on for any of this, the worrying about my friends, the drugs, whatever the heck is ever going on with the GLaDOS project- oh. Do you think I should... I mean, maybe I should talk to Virgil about it, too."

Rick frowns, and he takes a hand from the crook of his arm to scratch just above his beard. His hesitation shows on his face before he shakes his head. "I don't know... What if he raises a stink about it?"

Neil seems less sure in the face of Rick's doubt. "I'm not so sure he would. I don't wanna go telling him about Wheatley or anything, but if there's bad stuff happening- maybe he and Mel should be packing up too."

"I know you're friends with the guy, but... d'you think he'll believe us over Mr. Johnson?" Rick asks, softening a little.

"I don't know," Neil admits, but he does so with redoubled conviction. "But I should at least tell him about it if we're all about to fly into an asteroid belt. And let him make his own decision."

That makes sense, coming from Neil, and Rick decides that it's better not to argue the finer points of abandoning a friend when that's exactly what he's in the middle of trying to avoid. "Yeah, alright. Just as long as he doesn't suspect about us or Wheatey."

"Yeah. Okay," Neil says. He doesn't sound like he was planning on saying anything pertaining to Wheatley anyway, and he fidgets with his keychain. "I'll talk to him in a bit, then."

"Good man," Rick replies, and goes to give Neil a hearty pat on the shoulder. He stops his hand before it can make contact and shoves it into his pocket instead, making like he had no intention of touching the other man.

As he withdraws his hand, Neil gives him a warm, appreciative smile. They are a strange group. But they understand each other.

"I'm gonna see if Paris and Chell are still down there," Neil says, sliding the keychain in his pocket, and moving towards the observation window.

"Sounds like a plan," Rick agrees, heading over to a desk and sitting down. He isn't gonna get any work done, of course, but this feels right in the moment. He sighs heavily and lets his face fall onto the keyboard.

"Looks like Chell is gone," Neil remarks thoughtfully. "Paris is coming up. Wonder where she headed off to?"

Rick's head jerks up off of the keys before they can leave squares on his skin. "What? Chell's not with 'im?"

"Nope. I guess she left while we were talking, or maybe just before you got here." Pause. "I hope she didn't go to see Wheatley, if he's still in such a bad way."

"Yeah, I hope so, too!" Rick exclaims, getting up and out of his seat fast enough to send the whole chair whizzing backwards. In great, quick strides, he makes for the door without another word, like a man possessed on the hunt for that missing girl.

Neil hurries over in a state of alarm, actually running to block Rick from leaving. "Rick, wait. She's a really smart lady! I don't think she'd go doing anything rash. Even if she did go see Wheatley, you might just make things worse if you barge in on them."

Rick's face and ears heat up, the last time he'd barged in on Wheatley still painfully recent and painfully fresh. He doesn't quite look at Neil, as he stops and breathes hotly.

"But what'f I can still stop 'er?"

"I... I don't know. It's hard to know. Why don't we ask Paris if he knows where she went?" Now Neil moves to the door, poking his head out in the hopes of seeing their friend coming up from the test track.

Paris, of course, is still on his way up, and it isn't long before he comes into view, muttering to himself about something or another.

Behind Neil, Rick brushes back his lab coat and puts his hands firmly on his hips as he watches Neil blocking the only exit, his face still markedly redder than usual. He presses his lips to one side.

"Paris," Neil greets immediately, and without preamble, jumps right in. "Where's Chell? Did she say where she was headed? Is she going back to her brother? Because Rick said he's not doing so great right now."

Paris shook his head. "No, no, she's going to scope out a way to the surface. I warned her to be careful, and asked her to allow one of us to accompany her, but she insisted that she travel alone to draw less attention."

"And you just _let 'er_?" Rick demands, seething.

"What else was I meant to do?" Paris asks, shrugging. Unafraid of the larger, stronger man, for he has no _need_ to fear his ire. "I couldn't very well detain her against her will, now could I? I _tried_ to reason with her, but she refused to listen."

"You know how Wheatley can be when he puts his head to something. Any twin of his is bound to be even worse," Neil points out gently. "She still has her phone, doesn't she? Do we have her number?"

Paris nods. "I asked for it before she left. She was reluctant, but I got her to understand how important it is."

"Well, that's good anyway." Rick sulks.

"See? She can get in touch with us if she needs us, and the other way round, too." Neil says soothingly. "Paris, could you text us that number?"

"Certainly, I shall do so now," Paris agrees. It only takes him a moment to follow through.

Even knowing what it is, Rick still checks his own phone, almost compulsively. Paris rolls his eyes at him but doesn't comment on it.

Neil smiles at the both of them, but it's a smile heavy with nerves. He doesn't know Chell well enough to know that she really knows what she's doing. He just knows they can't stop her.

* * *

Chell is on her way back towards the elevators right now. She isn't sure yet what approach they could take; they can't exactly drag Wheatley to the lift without somebody noticing; he would fight unless they could pacify him or knock him out, and she's already learned firsthand that the possibility exists of meeting Cave Johnson along the way, however great or slim that may be. She isn't really sure what she's even looking for at this point, but she looks anyway.

The idea of forcing Wheatley to go anywhere in the state he's in is laughable, and knocking him out sounds well and good until one considers how to then carry a whole unconscious man to an elevator without being noticed. Nobody bothers her as she makes her way to the crossroads she first emerged into, but when she tries to enter the elevator lobby, the transparent door proves to be locked tight.

It definitely wasn't locked before.

Oh. Chell doesn't like the look of this, a thrill of fear racing up her spine as he gives the door one more push, as if this time it might open. She'd been right to come back and check; it would have been a _disaster_ to come back here with Wheatley expecting the door to be open. The glass probably wouldn't break as easily as the broken door outside, and there are definitely security measures to keep somebody from getting out who isn't meant to.

Most importantly, it tells Chell in no uncertain terms that somebody is onto her, and she doesn't need to guess _who_.

"You look lost."

There's somebody standing behind her, talking in a song sweet voice, a perfect white brow lifted almost in disinterest.

Chell draws in a deep breath before slowly turning around to face the other woman, drawing her phone out yet again as she does. She feels her heart beating in her throat.

GLaDOS doesn't even look angry or smug. Her golden lips are set in a slight, idle frown, and her golden eyes look on in vague interest- or, the one that isn't hidden by her hair. "Chell Rattmann."

Chell feels a shiver at hearing GLaDOS say her full name. It's only to be expected she should know her surname, but for her to say it without Chell ever having told it to her gives the unnaturally beautiful woman the appearance almost of being all-knowing. She nods deeply to her.

"Hello, ma'am," Chell's phone reads.

"What are you doing? Those elevators haven't worked in months." It's a lie. Chell knows it's a lie, and GLaDOS knows that Chell knows it's a lie.

Chell frowns slightly at this. "I didn't know."

"Didn't you." It's not a question. GLaDOS strides closer, to stand beside Chell, and delicately touches the access panel with the tips of her fingers. "Were you leaving already? I would miss you."

"Would you?" Chell's phone asks casually, lacking any of the intent that tone should convey.

GLaDOS gives a slight smile, but doesn't answer this question. "Why are you even down here? Does he mean that much to you?"

Chell presses her lips together. Though she hesitates, her expression is firm. She nods.

"Why?" The imposing woman asks, lifting her chin slightly. "Much as I look, I can't find one single redeeming quality."

Chell wrinkles her nose in a snarl, like an outraged dog. She gestures to herself and then makes a sweeping motion to indicate all of herself.

"Use your words," GLaDOS says, smug in spite of her cool carriage.

This Chell does not allow to get under her skin. She has lived her whole life mute; of course she's heard this sort of thing before. Besides that, it is an insult against _her_. She relaxes her expression, though her blue eyes remain steely, and she types her answer on her phone.

"All due respect, you simply haven't looked hard enough."

GLaDOS watches Chell type with a striking patience; she doesn't fidget, doesn't look away, but observes as if the other was speaking aloud. Her expression barely changes as the words come from the phone. "Clearly, you have to look very, very hard."

Chell rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "What I mean is that you haven't looked at all. You aren't the kind of person who sees good in people, are you, GLaDOS?"

"It doesn't get you far, looking for things that aren't there," GLaDOS says coolly. "You looked for the best in your brother, and he repaid you by developing a drug habit and an attitude problem."

Chell frowns, but with worry rather than anger this time. "Tell me: why would Aperture want one of its employees to be taking drugs?"

"Who says Aperture wants that?" Comes the ready retort. "Just because happens doesn't mean it's desirable."

"Because you are more than aware of it and you don't do anything about it." Chell just as readily counters, wishing that her reader app could convey some real emotion, passion to put the extra force behind her words. As it stands, she has to rely on her body language for that. "It makes him work harder, after all."

"That's true. I suppose it just worked out in a positive way for us." The elegant woman is unapologetic, unswayed by Chell's passion. "You should honestly take advantage of the situation and get a new one."

"In the real world, you don't just replace people like appliances." GLaDOS's carelessness is starting to get on Chell's nerves, but she keeps herself steady. "Why else would I come?'

"How should I know? You're the dangerous, mute lunatic, not me." She tilts her head, assessing Chell. "Still... a dangerous, mute lunatic with conviction."

Chell nods sternly. "I only have one thing that I want."

"Right... to keep the moron safe." A moment's pause. "Maybe I can help you with that."

Chell turns her head slightly, eyeing GLaDOS with distrust. "What's the catch?"

GLaDOS smiles. "I do have ulterior motives. But they don't entail a particular catch for you. I am still going to say you owe me a favor, however."

Chell presses her lips together and knits her brow. She nods and gives GLaDOS a long, assessing look before going back to the phone. "As long as this gets him out, I'll do whatever you want."

"Good. First I'll have to find out why he doesn't have surface clearance," GLaDOS says. She has a certain air of always being in control. "That won't be hard. Just do me a big favor and keep from causing any trouble while I do it, alright?"

Chell nods affirmatively, although she has some pretty sizable reservations as to what reasons could convince GLaDOS to go from hating her to wanting to help her. Of course, she could have just been reading her wrong; GLaDOS seems like a driven woman above all else.

"Understood."

"Good. By the way, you're being reassigned." The topic is changed so smoothly that it sounds like part of the same thought.

Chell blinks and draws back. She almost doesn't remember she needs to use her phone to answer at first, her hands extending outward and to the sides before her, palms up, in a gesture that is more universally understood than most signs. Then it hits her, and her thumb slides across the screen to voice it as, "What?"

"I said, you're being reassigned." GLaDOS says deliberately. "You didn't think Mr. Johnson would let a position he didn't even authorize stay filled, did you?"

Chell sighs and shakes her head. "Guess not."

"You're lucky he likes you, or you wouldn't even be here anymore." A slight shake of the head, as if perhaps she thinks Chell _shouldn't_ be here. Likely. "Anyway, you've been selected for the testing initiative."

The testing initiative! Chell recognizes the words at once. Wheatley had had some very strong opinions about that, whatever it was. This, and its anonymity make it large and intimidating, yet perhaps it is the answer to at least _some_ of Chell's questions. She nods.

"What is the testing initivative?"

"An initiative for testing," GLaDOS replies, as though this explains everything. Then she makes a little noise like she can't believe she has to explain this, and goes into an explanation that sounds downright scripted. She reads it as if off a teleprompter. "Good test subjects are hard to come by. So we use you, employee of Aperture Laboratories, instead. We are always coming up with the latest in high tech innovations of science- and innovations need to be put through their paces before they can actually be used. That's where you come in. Congratulations, you've been selected to be a pioneer on the very edge of progress. Be advised that accepting this offer is mandatory as outlined in your employee contract, and refusal may result in immediate termination. Aperture is not liable for any injuries, death, major illnesses, or minor inconveniences incurred as a result of testing."

This introduction was not remotely what Chell had been expecting in response to her question, and it caught her very much by surprise. Her expression was frozen for a long moment, like a computer on standby, and then she went through the process of waking herself from it; very short, but it feels like it takes forever. It ends with her remembering how to write.

"Right, so... product testing."

"Sure." GLaDOS says, as if the description Chell has given it is woefully insufficient. "We have a number of projects, but the primary one we're testing right now is- well, with all the time you spend around Rattmann and his disturbing group of friends, I'm sure one of them have told you already. Wait, no, you're Rattmann too. With all the time you spend around the moron."

Chell frowns in irritation at the insult and shakes her head. She does have an idea, now that GLaDOS presents it to her, and realizes that the testing initiative must be a way of getting employees to volunteer to try things like that device which Chell had been helping to check the testing room for less than an hour ago. It sounds a miraculous device, from what little she's heard of it, and the young woman isn't sure that it will or can work, but Paris and Neil had seemed very confident in the thing, and she is inclined to believe them.

GLaDOS seems terribly inconvenienced. "I suppose any sister of his can't be relied on to pay much attention. I am referring to the Aperture Hand-held Portal Device. You'll be required to use it to make your way through various... simple puzzles."

Chell nods, still with a bit of a frown on her face. Yes, she gets it. She's just tired of having Wheatley be insulted right to her face.

"Glad to know you aren't _both_ totally simple," GLaDOS says, tiringly enough. "I'll escort you to the test track and get you started."

Chell sighs frustratedly, but agrees all the same, stepping a bit closer to GLaDOS with an expectant look, waiting for the pale woman to guide the way.

It seems like a long walk, with GLaDOS's heels clicking against the floor - concrete, grate, tile, or whatever the floor becomes, nothing causes even the slightest falter in her graceful stride. "You might have seen part of the testing track already, from the outside. Portions of this track in particular come very close and even intersect with the residential area."

Chell nods. She can't help but to get swept up in the way GLaDOS walks, admiring her grace and elegance in spite of herself. Though she'd initially very much _disliked_ her for trying to keep her out of Aperture, and indeed still is very much irritated with her for her rude words towards her and _especially_ her brother, there is something about the almost otherworldly beauty of the white-haired woman that makes it difficult for Chell to harbor any genuine resentment towards her.

"Hopefully, this will keep you busy for awhile. I'll stay for awhile, and come check on you in the evening when your shift is over." GLaDOS continues, glancing back at Chell. If she notices the way the other woman is observing her, she doesn't say anything about it, although she does spend a few moments watching in return before looking ahead again.

Chell's lips quirk almost into a smile, but she doesn't say anything in return. She feels scrutinized in a way she can't quite explain. Maybe it's just that her _observations_ are making her feel _exposed_.

GLaDOS leads her more or less back the way she'd come from, though not exactly to the same place. Seems like the test tracks extend pretty far, and wind to a lot of different places in the facility; it's pretty amazing to think how big the facility itself must be.

Chell can only imagine; the main building looked impressive from the outside, yet it encompasses only a very small portion of the facility itself. The rest extends further underground than she can possibly guess, filling a wide space in what she's heard was a salt mine or something like it. The residential area alone contains rows upon rows of chambers the size of hotel rooms, and to look up is to see machinery, catwalks, and segmented walls extending for what feels like forever.

"Here we go," She says, stopping in front of a door and putting her fingertips on the access panel. It slides open for her at once, into an observation room much like the one Neil and Paris had shown her. This one, however, does not contain Neil and Paris.

Chell straightens her back as the door opens, not presuming to walk past GLaDOS but rather staying where she is until prompted otherwise. If she were honest, she's a little nervous. She has no idea who or what she's about to be confronted with.

GLaDOS puts a hand on the small of Chell's back and gives her a gentle push into the room. "Get in there. Dr. Arachne will show you what you need to do. And she's trained in working with feral animals, so you should get along fine."

Chell glares at her, although the touch is surprising enough that that's _all_ she can do.

She heads straight over to Dr. Arachne instead of bothering with GLaDOS any further, ready to find out what exactly she'll be doing for the test. She expects it will have a lot to do with firing the portal device to make sure it works. (But maybe it will also involve animals somehow?)

GLaDOS watches the scientist receive Chell, hands folded behind her back and gaze cold and analytical.

Dr. Arachne is GLaDOS's visual antithesis, dark from her head to her feet, and clearly human in her dimples and slightly messy hair. There's something unnerving about her anyway, though, something difficult to pin down exactly. Maybe it's the drop earrings made to look like little spiders. "Oh, are you a new subject?"

Chell nods and has her phone introduce her. "Chell Rattmann," the reader says. Then, the young woman offers her free hand.

"Dr. Phoebe Archne." Dr. Arachne shakes Chell's hand, and then holds her own out for the phone. "I'm afraid you can't have that anymore until the testing is over. I'll put it in a locker for you."

Chell gives her an anxious look, but, well, it's not as if she can protest, and besides, she isn't going to need it during the test. She turns the phone off and hands it over compliantly.

The woman takes Chell's phone- her voice in this place -and carries it in those long, careful fingers to place it in a lock box, which is tucked away in a file cabinet. "There we go. It'll be safe in there. While I'm here, are there any other things you're carrying? No unauthorized items are allowed on the test tracks. That includes, but is not limited to, spiders and medical implants."

Spiders? That seems rather out of place— regardless of the scientist's _name_. Chell nods, having brought nothing else. Perhaps it was a lack of foresight on her part, but to have brought anything else into Aperture would really only have been a hindrance, particularly when she'd needed to change into the jumpsuit.

"Good. Be aware that any contraband- including spiders and medical implants -will be destroyed on contact with the material emancipation grill. This is for your own safety." Something about destroying medical implants on contact doesn't sound especially safe. "Were you assigned to the Portal device?"

"Yes," says GLaDOS, who hasn't moved from her place beside the door. "Nothing spider-related, I'm afraid, Dr. Arachne."

"Pity," says Dr. Arachne, seeming a little less comfortable to realize GLaDOS is still there. "Well, Chell- come meet the Portal device."

Chell glances back at GLaDOS with relief almost _tangible_. Then she looks to Dr. Arachne with a gesture of agreement, starting to become nervously excited about this in spite of everything that's been happening down here.

The thing in question is sleek and white, though not nearly as bright as the white that GLaDOS is. One end of it has an opening to fire from, complete with little black claws. The other end has an opening for a person to insert their arm.

"There's a lot of people working on this project," says GLaDOS, "and a few different versions of the device."

"But this is the most successful and the most spider-resistant," Dr. Arachne says at once, not wanting to appear outdone.

"Disclaimer: tests for spider resistance have not yet been run for the Portal device," GLaDOS retorts coolly. "It is, however, not waterproof."

Chell reaches out to accept it with tremendous care, her eyes sweeping over it as if she could read its every secret if she only looks at it intently enough. She slips it over her arm, and is pleased by the secure, yet comfortable fit as her hand curls into a fist over the grip. She supports the front with her other hand, and takes a moment to get a feel for the weight and the shape of it. There is something very right about this.

It reacts, lights on the side and the end giving off a gentle glow, the little claws flexing. GLaDOS looks at Chell with a strange sort of expression. "...Please proceed into the first test chamber."

* * *

Virgil groans and steps back from his work, leaning his head back as he brings a hand up to smooth his hair. They're stretching him so thin these days it's no wonder he's started to lose weight. He feels like any day now he's going to have a breakdown and they'll have to send a technician up for _him_. Isn't he too important for this kind of treatment? Doesn't he have better things to fix a server when he's the top expert on the transference technology?

It wouldn't be quite so bad if he didn't have to come all the way down here for it. True, the highly impressive Portal project is mostly run in the lower levels, but by and by, the whole place seems somehow unwelcoming compared to where he normally works.

The door opens, and somebody comes in behind him. Likely maintenance.

Virgil doesn't turn around. He needs the time to adjust his collar and his attitude, to make himself look presentable so that he can keep up that air of professionalism that he has created for himself, the standard that his post demands. He's also kind of hoping that, whoever it is, they'll walk on by without addressing him.

The person comes closer to him, until their smaller presence is right behind him, not quite invading his personal space. So much for them leaving him alone. Suddenly hands cover his eyes from behind, and a pleasant voice asks, "guess who?"

Virgil gasps softly, and then he exhales again, as if releasing that gasp again, and all of the tension and pain in his body along with it. His posture relaxes, and a smile creeps across his lips. "Oh! Hmm... Give me a clue."

She laughs, a sound like a bell, so light and full of affection. Her voice has a gentle Southern inflection, charmingly American. "Okay, clue. Hmmm. Well, you didn't have lunch with me."

"Oh, I really wish I could have," Virgil replies, sounding regretful as much as apologetic, "But I'll make it up to you tonight."

"Will you now?" She gives an interested hum, her hands sliding down to his shoulders. In this slightly shifted position, she guides him to turn around to face her. "Tempting notion."

His arms move naturally with the movement to wrap around her waist as Virgil is turned, and his eyes soften the moment they set upon her face. His shoulders slope, and even in this wretched place, overworked, he feels like he is _home_.

"Tempting enough for you to take me up on it?" he asks flirtatiously.

Mel's arms slide up around his neck, her smile softening at his flirting, shifting a little closer in the loose embrace. "Could be. Depends what exactly you're offerin'."

"How's dinner? We can pick a movie, order in, my treat," Virgil offers, warm and hopeful.

"As if I would ever say no to that," Mel says with a little laugh, and she leans up to kiss him.

Virgil meets this with gentle enthusiasm, humming softly and pulling her to himself as their lips meet. For a moment, it's as if his every problem is far away, and even Aperture itself does not exist; there is only the two of them.

Mel makes a soft, happy sound against Virgil's lips, hugging him a little tighter. When the kiss breaks, she's a little red in the face, like when she's been running. "You're such a sweet kisser."

Virgil chuckles, deep in his chest. "That's because of you." he answers, and lightly touches the tip of Mel's nose with his fingertip.

She turns away from the touch playfully, and then moves to kiss his hand instead. "I have some real fine news to share, too!"

"Do you?" Virgil is intrigued by this, brightening up. Were he a dog, his ears would have raised. "What might that be, Mel?"

"You think I'd just tell you? After you didn't even have lunch with me?" She shakes her head. "Absolutely not. You can wait until dinner. Maybe I'll tell you after you romance me proper."

Virgil pouts his lower lip exaggeratedly. "That's not fair, I couldn't help being assigned down here," he says in a mock sulk. Then he smiles again, and, dropping the tone, says "Ah well, I'll just have to _kiss_ the truth out of you," which he punctuates by kissing her cheek, jaw, and neck.

"Oh!" She says, more in delight than in surprise, holding him tighter and leaning her head back to accommodate. "That's cheatin', you absolute rascal. Now I'm _definitely_ not telling you."

"I think you already weren't going to tell me until dinner," Virgil says slyly, his lips brushing her neck.

"I wasn't and I'm _not_ ," Mel says, her toes curling in pleasure. "But that doesn't make this not cheatin'. Now come off it, you're going to make me late going back to work."

"Well... OK, I suppose we can't have that," Virgil says agreeably, leaning back up again. He still has his arms around her, though, and he gives her another tender, appreciative smile before letting her go. "Thank you for paying me a visit, Mel."

"You know there's nowhere I'd rather be," she replies, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "Although at some point in the near future I'd like us to be somewhere that's not so far underground."

"Maybe so, yeah," Virgil says, not dismissively. He says this more like it's an idea he's entertained before, but has reservations about, since he is very proud of his work. Where else but Aperture could he _perform_ such important work? Maybe there is some smaller, less corporatized facility he could find to work for topside, though. He supposes he'll have to give it some thought, once the GLaDOS project has concluded.

"There's better places for us. And _test subject_ isn't exactly the path I hoped my career would take," she argues gently, persuasively. "Besides, I'd love to move back a little closer to home, if you-"

"Oh- uh. Am I interrupting?" Neil has just come through the door, and looks not just awkward, but also embarrassed, like a deer that's just walked into somebody else's very personal headlight.

"Oh, nah..." Virgil feels a touch of warmth in his cheeks. "It's, um, you're fine." He looks at Mel. "You make a compelling case, but if you want to get back to work on time— and I've really got to get back to it, too— we'll have to carry on this conversation tonight. OK? I love you."

"You're right," she says, and she punctuates this with a last kiss on the cheek before she pulls away. "Don't do anything you don't have to do. I love you too."

Moving through the door, she pauses to give Neil a smile and greeting, which he returns a little nervously.

Virgil gives this little wave after her that consists of raising his hand and opening his fingers briefly. As she leaves, his smile is already fading away.

He clears his throat and puts his hands on his hips while he straightens himself, trying again to look professional. "So, Neil. What can I do for you?"

"Hey," Neil says as he approaches, glancing back briefly over his shoulder- maybe out of a sense of awkwardness, or maybe just to make sure Mel is really gone. "Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. This was just the only opportunity I had to come and talk to you. Paris and Rick are covering me. I just had to talk to you."

He seems to try not to get fixated on the word _talk_ , or the fact that he said it twice, but he mutters it under his breath a moment later.

Virgil's brow knits. "What about?" he asks, paying no mind to this. His only concern is that Neil apparently needed to come and have a word with him badly enough to leave his station and get his friends to cover him— not to mention that said friends _did_ it, in spite of their personal feelings towards the lanky Norwegian.

"Um, were you guys talking about moving when I came in?" Neil asks, in that rambling, word-over-word way he talks. "That's kind of actually relevant. But if you guys are planning on moving anyway then I guess it's not... important? But if you're on the fence about it, _definitely_ move."

"Why?" Virgil asks suspiciously, feeling a chill to the air that absolutely was not there before. There's something oppressive about this conversation, as if it's a shadow of doom bearing down on the both of them, and he has no idea _why_.

"Just something me and the guys were talking about. So I was kind of worrying. And I wanted to let you know." The answer is lame, a dam holding back the flood of the truth that wants so much to rush from Neil. He's not good at keeping secrets.

"Know what? Neil, what are you getting at?" Virgil asks, stepping closer to him with increasing urgency in his voice.

"It's just. Um. Aperture has been kind of weird for a little while, hasn't it?" Neil says, a bit flighty in his answer. "We just weren't thinking it was a great place to hang around anymore. Haven't you thought so?"

"I... well, yes, actually, now that you mention it. But what are you talking about _specifically_?" Virgil presses, getting closer still.

"Well..." Neil moves back a step, a little alarmed by the sudden proximity. "You know. They've been overworking everybody a lot. For one thing. Even you always seem more stressed out nowadays than before."

Virgil adjusts his tie self-consciously. He wonders if Neil notices the weight thing, or the dark circles under his eyes. "Yes, but we have been trying to meet a certain deadline with the GLaDOS project, you know..."

"Really?" Something suddenly seems to occur to Neil. "Oh, have you been- I mean, did they give you something, too?"

Virgil pales slightly. "Give me something?"

"Yeah. You know. Just. Something. Nonspecific. Did they give you something." He's rambling.

"Could you be a bit _less_ nonspecific?"

"You know! Just, uh, anything they might have given you. For work."

"Neil, be straight with me! What are they giving people?" Virgil whispers harshly, reclaiming the space between them. "What is going on in this place?"

" _Meth?_ " Neil asks loudly, intimidated, and then immediately claps his hands over his mouth.

"Meth!" Virgil echoes in horror, putting his hands abruptly on the sides of Neil's shoulders. "That— of _course_ , that explains so much! But who's giving the scientists meth?"

Neil squeaks through his hands, and then mumbles through them. It is impossible to tell what he's saying.

"Come on, Neil, this is important!" Virgil urges. "I hadn't realized— does anybody else know yet? OK, this is really really bad. I need to finish my work but if people are taking meth to get the job done... Oh no, does Mr. Johnson know about this?"

Neil's hands lower from his mouth at once. " _No!_ I mean, yes, he knows, but no, don't say anything to him. I mean, he might know. Or doesn't know. I don't know. Maybe. You should really be worrying about you and Mel."

"Neil, level with me here. You think more's going on then the weird hours and the drugs, don't you?" Virgil asks, his voice low and conspiratory.

Neil's own voice lowers to match. "I guess? I guess! There's a lot that seems weird about this place. Even the testing initiative. Doesn't the GLaDOS project?"

"Yes, that's why I'm so interested!" Virgil confirms excitedly, "Things are definitely odd with the project."

Neil's tone becomes more anxious and hurried. "That's not what I mean! I mean weird in the bad way! Is it true GLaDOS used to be Caroline McLain?"

Virgil freezes. "Well, I... Yes. Everyone knows that." There's horror creeping up on him now, like maybe it wasn't an accident that Caroline had died or something. Like there are so many things going on that he's never questioned before, and this whole meth thing is just the turning point for seeing what was there all along. "Why...?"

His caution emboldens Neil. "I mean, isn't it weird that she just suddenly happened to end up on her deathbed _just_ when the GLaDOS project needed a human subject? Haven't you ever thought about that?"

Virgil glances around anxiously, brows knitted, and leans even closer. "You've got a point. I've never dared to think of it!"

"And the project was practically made for her! Just look at the finalized model you guys ended up with!" Neil is probably saying way more than he meant to say, but he's saying it with energy. "Everybody knows she doesn't like Mr. Johnson- but when did she ever have a problem with him before, besides saying he's overbearing?"

"Oh God, oh this is terrible, if what you're saying is true, then— but it _can't_ be, can it?" Virgil hisses, deeply and visibly distraught.

"I don't know! It's not my place to know! I've been avoiding knowing! But now I'm thinking I want to get out of here, and so are Rick and Paris, as soon as we can bring Chell and Wheatley. And I think you and Mel should too!"

Virgil exhales audibly and shakily. He releases Neil and stands upright again. "Right. Right. We have to, um... my God, Neil, what about the project? Where's the human subject going to come from this time?" Alarm and urgency grow with every word, and he's shoving both his hands into his hair by the end of it. He jerks them down in a sudden motion, then, stopping chest-level with curled fingers as if imploring Neil to give him the answers he suddenly desperately needs.

As soon as Neil is released, he moves back a little, seeming relieved not to be touched anymore. However, this is far outweighed by his continued alarm. "I don't know! That's what I'm saying!"

"I don't either!" Virgil whispers urgently. "But I need to know! I _need_ answers, this is too _important_ , to me, to Aperture, to heaven only _knows_ who else!"

"But how do you intend on _getting_ those answers?" The idea seems to scare him.

"I'll use my clearance," Virgil answers. "I'll see what I can learn."

"Oh. Oh, maybe you shouldn't do that." Neil frets, rubbing his shoulders self-consciously. "I don't know, Virgil. Maybe it's not our place to challenge these things. Didn't Mel just say not to do anything you don't have to? That's probably good advice."

Virgil's cheeks heat. "You have a point, but... listen, I've been pouring everything that I have into this project. If there's drugs and foul play sullying it, I want to know."

"And do what with that information?" Neil cries.

"I don't know!" Virgil throws his hands up in despair. "I can't stand the idea that my work is being used like this!"

Neil moves as if he's going to push Virgil's hands down, but doesn't. "Maybe you should just cut your losses and leave, then! Go to the police or something! Be realistic, it's not like you can just go to Mr. Johnson and tell him that bad stuff is going on in Aperture!"

"Even if I were to go to the police, I'd still need proof that this was happening," Virgil insists. "Otherwise, it'll sound like some science fiction _fairy tale!_ I can't very well go to the station complaining that they're stuffing people into robots, especially if I start claiming they are possibly _murdering_ the people first!"

"I just think that maybe whatever you're planning is probably a terrible idea!" He looks like he's regretting entering into this conversation in the first place.

"But I can't just _ignore_ this!" Virgil protests, shaking his head.

"But maybe you should! You've gotta worry about yourself sometimes, Virgil! I mean, this might be actual crime going on. You can't just sweep in like a lone vigilante and expect that to end well!"

"I'm not going to do that, I'm going to see what I can find out and then if I come up with evidence I'm going to take it to the police," Virgil answers. "And I'm going to get out of here, just like you."

"I don't know..." Neil says nervously, though clearly he isn't getting far with his attempts to dissuade Virgil.

"What's not to know? You wanted me to know something was wrong, and you've done it, you've opened my eyes to this mess! Tell the truth, I've suspected, I just... Well, it doesn't matter. Thank you, Neil."

"...Yeah," he said finally, his expression falling. "Um, be careful."

"Of course I'll be careful," Virgil says, patting Neil's shoulder. "Won't do anything I don't have to do."

So fretful is Neil that he considers the touch a secondary concern right now. But he nods, and he slips back towards the door. "I need to get back, then. Take care."

"Yeah, take care, Neil." Virgil returns, with a wave much like the one he'd given Mel, only even smaller.


	5. Mistakes

Testing is... not quite what Chell imagined.

Having it explained to her, it had sounded like it basically boiled down to standard product testing. Use the provided item, answer questions, watch the white coats take notes. In _practice_ , it's easy to see why nobody here wants to do it.

First, it's hard to imagine that all this problem-solving is really _necessary_. Second, there's a lot of physical work involved, running around the testing chambers and using the portal device not only to move herself (which worked, _amazingly_ well), but also to gain momentum and to mount otherwise inaccessible platforms. For some reason, a lot of it involves moving large cubes onto buttons, as if she were a rat in a maze.

She's outfitted with these boots- they're _almost_ more incredible than the portal gun itself. As far as she might fall or be thrown, they somehow always hit the ground, making it feel like she's landing on something gentle and springy like moss. They're pretty incredible, but they don't answer a lot of the questions she has. GLaDOS hangs around, observing her from test to test.

The amazement at these incredible inventions, much like her awe at seeing GLaDOS, are short-lived as they are obliged to take a backseat to her anxiety and to those unanswered questions. There is no _telling_ what will happen next, or how it will happen. She can't possibly _know_ what GLaDOS is planning to do or what part she is to play in it. All she knows is the fact that the impossibly beautiful woman is her best bet at escaping with Wheatley, and the movements of her own body as she fires portals and throws herself through them.

It's intimidating, downright _sinister_ even, not knowing what GLaDOS's "ulterior motives" are. But as long as it somehow involves getting Wheatley out, does it really matter? It's a question with a fine line for an answer. This place feels more and more like a horror movie the longer Chell spends here.

It's all so alien and intimidating to Chell. It's like being in another world, and knowing none of the customs. She's subject to the will and the whims of the denizens of this world of science and progress, and yet all she wants is to leave with her brother. Right now, this very moment, she is using portals to move herself around rooms. There's nothing about this that feels like the life she's left behind on a phone call and a bike ride. There's nothing about this that even feels _real_ right now.

Least real of all are GLaDOS and Cave. The latter does not seem like the kind of man to be duped, and yet she is here. The former is giving her a polite round of applause as she finishes another test. It seems she's come to the end of this track. How long has she been at this?

"Seems you're getting the hang of it."

Chell nods and smiles, gives GLaDOS a thumbs up. Through the surreality, there is the odd feeling like she has accomplished something. It's probably the most positive feeling she's had down here, aside of that short-lived excitement from being reunited with Wheatley. God, she misses him all over again.

However long she's been at this, it's been _too_ long.

GLaDOS gives a slight, curious smile in return. She does not often smile- has she at all, actually? In all this unrealistically long day? -and it softens the cold inhumanity of her white face. Perhaps it isn't genuine. "Fortunately, between the portal device, the gel project, and... other things, there's never a shortage of need for eager subjects."

Chell shudders inwardly at the idea of keeping this up for any extended period of time, despite the feeling of having accomplished something and of having earned something of a _smile_ from GLaDOS. Maybe this would have been something she would have elected to do had Aperture not held Wheatley against his will and instilled such fear in her and in the scientists who'd been kind to her. Were the company not so intimidating, so utterly _wicked_ to its very head, she might have been able to see a future in testing wild advancements such as the portal device and whatever the gel project was.

But, of course, this was not the case.

Maybe that's part of why Wheatley so pointedly kept her away from this place- maybe he knew she'd find it thrilling, in a way, or that she would have before all this went down. Just as well. _Other things_ is pretty ominous.

Of course, there is a lot at play here; more than Chell even knows. Even as she carries on to the next test, her head is swimming, swirling, sinking in the tangle of it all, dazzling projects of the future somehow tracing their way back to the dark and sinister project which would turn a human woman into a creature straight out of science fiction. How can it all fit together?

Chamber after chamber progresses in much this way, interrupted only by the commentary of GLaDOS and the scientists, sometimes in person but mostly over a speaker system. In addition to Dr. Arachne, there's others that come and go, but Chell does not encounter Rick, Neil, or Paris. They said they're on this project, didn't they? The test chambers are extensive; perhaps they've simply missed each other.

Between two of the tests- rather abruptly, and without an indication that they are already done for the day -she is called into the observation chamber above.

Chell doesn't know what to make of this unexpected interruption, which seems as much like just a part of the way Aperture does things as not. She takes a moment to steady herself before she goes to answer the call, a part of her hoping that it might be one of the scientists she's befriended— and all of her knowing that she will have no such luck.

Of course, it's no friend of Wheatley's that has brought testing to a pause, that commands the scientists' anxious attention- and GLaDOS's apparent cold indifference. Rather, her entrance is greeted by someone far more important, and far more dangerous. Cave Johnson turns to glance at Chell as if she has interrupted something he was saying, but his grace betrays no falter.

"If it isn't our latest test subject."

Chell feels her heart twist in her chest and drop into her belly. She hadn't expected to see Cave Johnson again, and even less to be called personally to his side. Her sweat-shiny skin is tight and her hands can form no words— not that they would be understood if they could. She approaches slowly and nods in greeting, _yes, that is who she is._

What an identity to have. They should have both stayed away from this place, not that she had any say in the matter.

"How are you liking the portal device?" Cave asks, proud, rhetorical. He doesn't need her answers. He has his own. "Easily the third most impressive marvel of the modern world, after the GLaDOS project and myself."

Of course he'd name _himself_ the most impressive marvel of the modern world. If he weren't so egotistical, Chell wouldn't be here now— and not just because he fell so easily for her sweet-talking.

The young woman presses her lips together and nods in agreement. Yes, of _course_ it's impressive. It's a marvel. It's magnificent. Not that it does anyone any good.

Cave smiles at her. He has a practiced smile, but not an insincere one- he is unconcerned by judgement, least of all judgement as insignificant as hers. "Glad you think so. You know, I'm also glad Caroline recommended you for the testing initiative- she has a good eye for these things."

GLaDOS makes a soft sound, but it doesn't actually make it as far as becoming a word.

Chell offers a smile of her own, but it's weak compared to his, ironically _actually_ insincere. She despises this man for what he's done to Wheatley.

He's a cruel, wicked man, who has hurt her brother and her as well, and the scientists who were kind to her, and GLaDOS, as cold as she is. Chell can't blame her the way she did when they'd first spoken; she could easily have become just as cold after being through what GLaDOS has. Even now, there is little that stands between them but the fact of someone counting on her.

Yet, Chell forces herself to be charming just as before, and steps clover to him, listening, attentive.

"Incidentally, I need to have a word with Caroline about her good eye," Cave continues, turning away from Chell to look at GLaDOS, who has no smile at all, of any degree of sincerity. As seamlessly as he bought into Chell's flattery before, he gives the impression that there is nothing at all he doesn't know. "But I think that can wait for the moment. Now that I've run into you, I would like to clarify a couple of things."

His smile does not falter, but he steps closer to her, and his proximity is as unnerving as the shadow he casts over her.

"Starting with the fact that we have no record at all of you working here," he continues. "Or interviewing. Or even submitting your resume to the company."

It is with a jolt that Chell realizes she no longer has her phone, which means that she can't respond unless he can read her signs— and she is certain that if he _does_ know everything, that's still something he cannot do. She shivers, trying to cling to her resolve as the smile escapes her, and takes a step back from the man so intimidating her.

As she steps back, he steps forward in time, his greater stride bringing him even closer to her. Though not as tall as Wheatley, his presence fills the whole room, and he towers over her, all of Aperture at his back. He folds his hands behind himself, almost in a sense of disappointment in her. "Have you ever heard of Black Mesa, young lady?"

The young woman shakes her head at once, anxiously, truthfully. She has no _idea_ what that is. Does he think there's some kind of a connection between her appearance and this name? It strikes her that perhaps this is the codename for whatever has kept Wheatley here all this time, something connected somehow to the GLaDOS Project or the oxygen removals from the Long-Term Relaxation Chambers, or both. She can _feel_ her brown skin paling.

"Are you sure? It's not a smart move to lie to me," he says, looking down at her. There's a dark, dark expression in his eyes, although his face is set in mild disapproval. "If you're spying for them, it's a much better idea for you to tell me now."

GLaDOS has her gaze cast to the wall beside Chell, as if she'd rather not be in the room right now.

Chell swallows and shakes her head again, her heart constricting in her chest. Who the hell are _they_? What does Black Mesa mean, what do they _want_ from Aperture that she could possibly give them?

 _I don't know what you're talking about,_ she signs, almost desperately, knowing that she won't be understood but trying all the same in a distressed effort to claim her innocence.

Seconds stretch out as he assesses her, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts. Will he decide to believe her? What will he do to her if he doesn't? Does he know of her relation to Wheatley, has GLaDOS told him- and if he does, will Chell's own deception come back on her twin as well?

Finally, Cave lifts his chin. "Frankly, I don't see a lot of really good reasons I should believe you, outside of the fact that you don't talk much."

Has he understood? That can't be the case; she's _sure_ he didn't understand sign language— although remembering is difficult under this much pressure, all come on so unexpectedly. She gestures to himself, and then to him.

 _Didn't I tell you how much I admire you? I don't even know Black Mesa._

He does not clear up whether he understands her or not- either way, he doesn't care enough what she's saying to clarify. "You're on pretty thin ice, whoever you are. I want to know why you wanted so badly to come down here, if you're not working for them."

Backed like a rat into a corner, Chell has only to lay her cards down and hope that he can even _see_ them, or else risk being kicked out or _worse_. Well, not _all_ of her cards, but enough to protect herself from these cryptic accusations.

 _I wanted to work with my brother. Here, in Aperture._

Finally, GLaDOS spares her, if in a sharp-edged way. "Neither of us knows sign language. That's why I keep telling you to use your words."

"I don't need to know sign language- I have people who know that kind of thing for me," Cave says at once, seemingly even more annoyed now that he's had this called out. "Where's her phone?"

Oh. Well, that makes sense then, doesn't it? Chell feels a heat rush into her cheeks, but the relief that floods her is far stronger than any embarrassment. Cave has no _choice_ but to acknowledge her muteness now, and return her power of communication to her. It's honestly strangely rewarding.

"It was confiscated at the beginning of the testing tracks, of course. I'm not sure where it is now," GLaDOS says coolly. It seems unlike her to not know _anything_ , let alone to admit it. Is this the truth? Or does she have some reason to want to keep Chell from talking?

"Then I'm going to have to assume she's guilty of something until she gets that back," Cave says firmly. "Pretty convenient that it's lost now, isn't it?"

Chell shakes her head yet again and indicates GLaDOS, and then the portal device on her own arm. Of _course_ it's not a matter of convenience, it was simply a matter of _Aperture_ protocol, as enforced by GLaDOS, at the (perhaps indirect) behest of Cave Johnson himself.

"That just leaves the question of what to do with you," he says, maybe understanding her, maybe not. It doesn't seem to matter, given the way he guides the conversation.

"Let's not jump to decisions," GLaDOS says flatly. "We do have a shortage of capable test subjects, after all."

Chell quickly nods as if she knows what GLaDOS is talking about. Right, of course, don't you know you need me here?

"We don't need an extra pair of hands if they're Black Mesa hands," Cave retorts, turning to GLaDOS with a stern expression, arms folded.

"Her hands are brown," GLaDOS observes. "Besides, I doubt if she's working for them in the first place."

Chell draws her lower lip under her teeth. She fidgets now that Cave is no longer looking at her, stomach in knots.

Here her fate is to be once again decided without her, and she can only watch.

"What makes you so sure of that?" Cave asks. He's talking like Chell isn't even in the room. "You're the one who was so skeptical of her in the first place. "

"She's nowhere near smart enough," GLaDOS says with a totally straight face. "I think it would be sufficient to keep a close eye on her."

Chell chews her lip a little bit. Tests aside, they both know she was smart enough to get into Aperture in the first place; the question is rather whether Cave will believe a claim to the contrary.

He may be vain, easily appealed to and seemingly a bit careless at times, but clearly he is not stupid. Indeed, Chell could almost believe that he knows as much as he gives the air of knowing, possesses the sheer _control_ that he appears to, and certainly, she knows beyond a doubt that he holds her future _and_ Wheatley's in his hands. They are as insignificant to him as the seeds of a dandelion, and just as easily tossed and blown away.

Cave's eyes are sharp and inscrutable as he assesses the object of his suspicion. It was foolish to assume that she could coast under this man's radar long enough to get Wheatley out, and now she is confronted with the reality of that foolishness face to face. He's weighing her, this powerful man, and the question is not whether she will be found wanting, because she already has been.

"We've got too much going on around here to have to worry about you," he says at last. "Do you have an employee ID? You must have a door badge if youre getting around this place. Give it to me."

Chell shrinks back, startled to have him looking at her again, _terrified_ by his demand. She knows she can't hold out but she makes an appealing gesture anyway, as if it would do her any good now.

His expression hardens, and he holds out his hand and snaps his fingers. The command does not even beg further words.

She fishes out the card and hands it over. It feels like locking the door of her own prison cell, leaving her completely trapped— and that much more _helpless_.

Cave takes the badge with a formal flick of the wrist, and his gaze lingers on her for several moments before turning to the proffered card. _Wheatley Rattmann_ reads the front of it, and he takes that in, the employee number beneath, the picture of Wheatley's face. He flips it over, briefly, to look at the sticker with the second number on the back. "Mr. Rattmann. Funny coincidence."

Chell nods. There's nothing funny about it. It's like the punchline of a joke at the expense of everything she has ever known or cared about. _Everything_ is laid bare before Cave Johnson's wicked, wicked eyes.

"You look like you could be related," he observes, and he slides the badge under the lapel of his jacket, into some hidden breast pocket. It's impossible to tell what he is thinking, what he is planning, how much he has divined.

GLaDOS says nothing.

Chell trains her expression to the best of her ability and gives no response. She feels as if every part of her body is shutting down in sequence, and she's only still standing because anything else would be in defiance of this man who would destroy her.

His hand lingers at his lapel, giving him a distinguished air. The air feels cold. Finally he passes his judgement. "She can keep testing. Minimum security clearance. Below minimum. I don't want her sneezing without me knowing about it. Until I get this cleared up, she's not allowed near the residential wing. Change the master combination, too. And I want to move up my meeting with Mr. Rattmann."

"I'm afraid moving that any sooner might cause... conflicts," GLaDOS says tactfully.

Chell reacts with alarm, moving slightly towards the man before she can stop herself. There's still nothing she can do, nothing she can say. Even if he could understand her, it isn't as if she'd listen. Her plans are crumbling all around her, her hopes falling apart, can she even _think_ of getting back to Wheatley now? She shakes her head in piteous protest.

"I didn't ask for your permission," Cave says harshly to Chell, the strength of his voice filling up the room and causing the few scientists misfortunate enough to still be there to cringe. "Frankly, you're lucky circumstances are what they are."

Chell shrinks back, brows knitted, and she nods rapidly but she doesn't _feel_ lucky in the least. Being allowed to continue testing isn't enough, regardless of the fact that she'll still be in the facility. She might as well actually be in a cell down here.

"Goddamn right," Mr. Johnson says sternly. "You stay put right here. I need to have a private word with Caroline, and you better still be here when she gets back."

GLaDOS takes the cue and moves towards the door, watching her superior without so much as glancing back at Chell.

Chell's face is beet red, and she feels as if to breathe too hard would break open a dam holding back an ocean's worth of tears. Her entire body is shaking and she almost doesn't realize that her hands are balled into fists.

With this, Mr. Johnson turns and makes his exit, with GLaDOS following just behind. The door shuts behind them, a physical barrier between the most recent subject of his cruelty, and the next.

* * *

The sound of nice shoes clicking on the floor at a quick, steady pace heralds the arrival of another to a different scene. The nice shoes belong to a flustered man, furious and determined, his strides long and even. He is full of purpose, like his steps, but he is also anxious in the face of what he must now do.

"Mr. Johnson?" he calls as he knocks on the door, almost too urgently for what he needs to do, but not nearly urgently enough for the gravity of what he has discovered.

Mr. Johnson has only just returned to his office when he receives this knock, and he remains standing on account of it, one hand on his desk. "Come in."

It's Virgil who steps inside at this, his worry in his eyes and in the tightness of his lips. His back is straighter even than usual, but his hair is still distinctly ruffled.

"Mr. Johnson, I need to speak with you, it's of the utmost importance," he begins as soon as he's closed the door behind himself. "It concerns the GLaDOS Project."

"There haven't been any more setbacks, have there?" Mr. Johnson asks, drawing himself up with a slight frown. "I want the next trial to be _sooner_ , if possible. I'm not authorizing it to be delayed."

"No, no, that's not it," Virgil's voice is thick with the horror of what _it is_ , and carries uncomfortably the barely discernible sound of the anger he can barely contain at having discovered it. "It's about the transfer. It's about the _scans_." The word is stressed with the knowledge that Mr. Johnson should know _exactly_ what this is about.

With a considerate hum, Mr. Johnson lowers himself into his chair, and he leans back, and folds his hands in front of himself. If Virgil is expecting any kind of true acknowledgement of the subject at hand, he is to be disappointed. "You're going to have to be more specific."

Virgil comes right up to the desk, just short of touching it. He can't be bothered now with a prelude, and instead launches straight into it. "The scans are _fatal_ to live subjects. Sir, if we proceed to perform the next run as planned, we are going to _kill_ our subject."

"Working as you do on the project, I would think you already know that the subjects live on in their new forms," Mr. Johnson says with an air of unconcerned patience, almost totally dismissive of the heady implications laid before him. "Our subjects know what they're getting into when they volunteer. Just look at Caroline! She's not just happy, she's _thriving_."

"Of course, but sir, I wasn't _aware_ that the scans were going to cause irreparable _brain damage_!" Virgil protests. He feels stupid even letting the words leave his mouth. He _should_ have known, he thinks, but he didn't. He worked on the computers for the project, and this was out of his jurisdiction, but he still feels like he should have _known_ what he was helping to create and that just makes it all the worse.

His blood goes _cold_ at the mention of Caroline. He wasn't expecting his suspicions to be confirmed so obviously, so _blithely_. "And Caroline, she was supposed to have been in an accident, how can she be held up as an example of doing better under the GLaDOS project? You were aware of this already. You _knew_ this was an issue, why haven't we _fixed_ it?"

"Because it's not an issue," Mr. Johnson says, now frowning slightly, gesturing with one hand to underscore the point. "There is a reason it's called a _transfer_ process. Nothing about it needs to be fixed- the project accomplishes exactly what it set out to accomplish."

"With the _death_ of the _host_?" Virgil sputters, rage and horror bubbling over. He slams his hands down on the desk. "You didn't _tell_ us that _this_ was what we were doing! What you _told_ us was that we were creating artificial intelligence from human intelligence! You _told_ us that Caroline _died in an accident_!"

"Obviously she was alive enough for you to work with." Quiet aggression has seeped into Mr. Johnson's voice, a warning undertone. Virgil is meant to drop the subject. "We are not _duplicating_ humans as robots, we are _recreating_ those humans as the GLaDOS hardware. The subjects are not a mere blueprint."

"That's, that's _inhumane_!" Virgil cries, refusing to back down, his ruddy face reddened and hot. "The second subject is young and healthy, you can't just turn him _into_ a robot! Mr. Johnson, this project needs to be shut down! This is insanity! This is cruel!"

"First of all, the GLaDOS hardware is so much more than just a robot," Mr. Johnson asserts, his voice rising slightly in volume. He doesn't stand up. "I would expect a man of your caliber to understand that. Second of all, I can do whatever I want in this facility. Don't try to tell me otherwise."

"In this facility, certainly," Virgil growls. "But this is the _real world_ , Mr. Johnson. I'm not about to stand idly by while you send healthy young subjects to the chopping block. I would bet anything this next subject has no _idea_ what he's in for and neither did Caroline. Why, it's no wonder she is so sullen all the time! She used to be so cheerful, such a good friend. I'm not going to let somebody else end up like she did. That is a _promise_."

With a heavy sigh, Mr. Johnson leans back in his chair. "I'm sorry to hear you feel that way. It's always disappointing when a trusted employee loses sight of what's really important. And by that, of course, I mean science."

"Mr. Johnson, nobody believed in the GLaDOS project like I do," Virgil corrects him, a snarl to his nose and lips, and a light in his eyes. " _Nobody_. I still feel that the project could be set right, if the scans were fixed, and the subjects were terminal patience, but clearly you have your heart set on continuing on the course you've set, and that worries me, that _sickens_ me. I have trusted you and Aperture, put my faith in you, put everything I have into this company! You can't possibly think that I have just lost sight of something when you have been lying and manipulating me this entire time!"

"The subjects are not chosen at random; there are very specific reasons for my decisions. I'm not casting a net blindly, here. I almost feel like you don't have a proper appreciation for what we're achieving, here. To change the scans would be to change the entire transfer process, which is something that is neither necessary nor budgeted." He jabs a finger down with the last word. "And I don't mean in terms of money. Redoing that much work would be an enormous waste of time."

"How can it be a waste of time if it would allow us to both accomplish our goals _and_ preserve the original life? We could make _so many_ more robots if we can copy the same intelligence repeatedly, or use more subjects! And besides that, to kill the subjects is not only scientifically unethical, it's illegal!" Virgil's voice raises at the end, almost birdlike, high with exasperation and rough with passion.

"As I just said, the GLaDOS hardware is so much _more_ than just a robot. Look at Caroline! You can't just make _multiple Carolines_. In every aspect, that is very much the same person she has always been, but better," Mr. Johnson argues proudly. "Frankly, Virgil, I don't give a damn about your ethics, or your laws. We've already been over the fact that science is dangerous. That's just a fact. That's what we have waivers for."

"What the hell are you looking to achieve?" Virgil snaps. "Go on, enlighten me. What are we doing that's worth human lives? Do you think we can just replace people with robots? Is that what you're thinking?"

"It isn't a _replacement_ for a human, man, pay attention! It's a human _reborn_ , made into something better!" Mr. Johnson is visibly taken by a force of passion, such that he actually smacks the flat of his hand against his desk. "And by God, we are not reworking the whole project just to keep those people humans!"

Virgil does not let this quell his own fervor, however much it shakes him. That only makes him more determined, more set in his righteousness. "Are you _hearing_ yourself?" he demands. "You're talking about _murder_ , and banking a person's entire _being_ on _software_! And you think a _waiver_ can protect Aperture from that, when the project _deliberately_ kills the brain it's mapping? Are you _deranged_? Mr. Johnson, this is unbelievable! I will not be parcel to this any longer!"

"I'm not going to argue with you about this anymore. Why are you bringing this to me? Is it that you want off the project?" There's something indiscernibly heavy about the question.

"I came to you because I trusted you and I thought that you could put a stop to this," Virgil answers fiercely, which is only a half-truth and yet still it rings with what truth it does possess. Of _course_ he trusted Mr. Johnson. He _believed_ in him. He still would if only Mr. Johnson had told him anything but what he has. "Now I personally give you my resignation. I'm leaving Aperture!"

"Hate to hear that. You were one of the best, Virgil. One of the best." Mr. Johnson sighs with that same heaviness, and sets his hands palm down on the desk. "Give me your badge. I'll call a security escort to help you gather your belongings."

Virgil sighs as well, roughly, his anger coming to a simmer. "I can't believe it's come to this, Mr. Johnson. I believed _so much_ in the GLaDOS project and in Aperture. This is... just beyond words to me. I can't believe you would have us do something so immoral and illegal. I can't believe you would _lie to us this way_." He takes his badge out with a shaky hand as he finishes this. He knows exactly where he is going after he leaves, and that's straight to the authorities.

Mr. Johnson does not interrupt, and when Virgil is done speaking, takes the badge from the desk with a slow, deliberate manner. Without looking away from Virgil, he reaches out with his other hand, and he pushes the red button on his intercom. "Greg? Send Aeshawn in here."

Aeshawn? Isn't that Aegis's actual name? It seems almost disproportionate to send Aegis personally just to escort out someone who is quitting. Why would Mr. Johnson name names instead of just pushing the call button he no doubt has somewhere in his office? Why would he want someone specific? Does he _need_ to send the director over this? Virgil frowns. It makes him feel suddenly incredibly vulnerable.

"Why send Aegis?" he asks, the question leaving a bad taste in his mouth. "I'm only leaving."

"Because I take security seriously," Mr. Johnson says, flicking the security badge into the trash can beside his desk. "Something wrong with that?"

The gesture doesn't escape Virgil. Not only contradictory to his statement, leaving a badge to the trash, but more to the point, a show of complete disdain towards the man whose face it bears. A show of utter disregard toward Virgil.

"Was that really _necessary_?"

"Everything I do is necessary because I'm the one that did it," the man behind the desk replies, proud and heedless. As if he doesn't know how blatantly he's disrespecting his ex-subordinate with the gesture of the badge, and perhaps even threatening him by calling in Aegis. Just a power move on Mr. Johnson's part? A tactic to frighten and intimidate?

"You don't have to hate me because I disagree with your vision," Virgil tells him, full of resolve not to allow this to sway him. He won't be intimidated and bullied. To say he 'disagrees' is a woeful understatement; he's going to see this whole damn thing shut down before somebody else can be 'reborn' under Cave Johnson's insane vision.

"That's something I think some folks don't understand about me, and I'd like to make it clear to you before you leave. I want you to know this." Mr. Johnson leans forward over the desk. "I don't hate you at all. Don't have the time. It's just business."

Before Virgil has the time to really answer, the door opens, and Aegis steps in, all dark colors and frightening presence.

Virgil looks back at Aegis, his heart rate picking up as if he's some prey animal setting eyes on a predator. Ah, but Aegis is not the predator, is he? He is only the means to an end, the dog of the hunter.

The hunter is sitting behind the desk, dismissing Virgil's life's work, as if nothing he has done for this farce of a company has ever mattered. None of it.

"What are you saying, Mr. Johnson?" the scientist asks, fear creeping into his voice.

Mr. Johnson doesn't answer, but speaks instead to Aegis. "Virgil here is sadly parting ways with the company. I wanted you to give him a personal escort out."

The larger man glances briefly at Virgil, his expression as cold and unreadable as if he, not GLaDOS, were the living machine.

"Oh, and Virgil," Mr. Johnson continues, looking back to the headstrong scientist. "Before you go, I hope you don't mind if I ask a quick work-related question. Does your team still have the Genetic Life test model hooked up?"

"Yes, of course it is," Virgil answers, furrowing his brow. He feels almost offended by the question, especially after the outpouring of emotion he has given, the hatred and betrayal he's expressed toward the project's true nature. "The damn thing hasn't been moved."

He doesn't pay Aeshawn much mind of yet.

"Good," Mr. Johnson says with a nod, and then he gestures dismissively. "You know what to do, Aeshawn."

Aegis narrows his eyes, and finally turns to Virgil. He is rarely a man of words, and now is no exception; he merely jerks his head for the other to follow, and moves towards the door.

"I wish it hadn't come to this," Virgil says unhappily, shaking his head as he turns to leave with Aegis.

"Goodbye, Virgil," Mr. Johnson says, as if he is bidding farewell to a friend, and the door shuts to his office, with the soft sound of finality.

* * *

Wheatley wakes up. He isn't sure when he fell asleep; he did quite a lot of work while angry and fucked up, and doesn't actually remember coming back to his office at the end of it. His feet are propped up on the desk, and his computer is unlocked. He doesn't remember if he left it unlocked, or if Chell did- there are other gaps in today, actually. Part and parcel of his _boost_.

He is left with a strangely hollow, buzzing feeling in his chest. Glancing around, he sees that he never actually cleaned up the mug he'd thrown against the door, which now lays in shards amidst the wide stain of that morning's coffee. He is simultaneously pitifully remorseful and righteously unrepentant for his temper.

For a long few minutes, he doesn't move, sitting there at his desk. However long this nap has been, it's apparently the first sleep he's gotten in days. His whole body is sore from the sleeping arrangements, but he's more comfortable than he's been since he first came in for this shift. Which is saying something, and not something positive.

He feels like he's forgetting something important. Not something that has already happened, but something he should be doing.

It's quieter than it was before; like the grave it is, still like a bustling facility housing thousands should never be. It's like this room is insulated from all else, a bit dark and utterly miserable.

Where's his phone? Didn't he have that at some point? No, Chell did. Or she didn't. It's so hard to sort this all out.

He rubs a hand through his charcoal hair, trying to make sense of the mess of his brain. With effort, he sits up, feeling hungover from his high. Anxiety forms in the pit of his throat, from seemingly no source. He needs to get the hell out of this office.

Without bothering to look for his phone, he hauls himself to his feet, pushing his chair away. Once he's out of this room, maybe he'll remember what he has to do. Or maybe he won't. At this point, he doesn't especially care which. He staggers out, unsteady and shaky both from sleep and from the drugs, heedless of the ceramic crunch under his shoes as he steps through the residue of his mug on the way. It's too dark in here, too quiet, too oppressive.

Since when has Aperture been so cavernous? His office is like a hole in the wall of the bowels of the Earth, small and cloistered, the air cool and thick. The space outside is so large and empty that it feels like no life has ever existed here but him, despite all of it being so carved by human hands. It's like visiting the ruins of an ancient civilization, but it's all too clean for that, too fresh. Maybe more like the day after the apocalypse.

Far from feeling comforted by the harsh, unnaturally white lights, Wheatley feels even more sick at the sight of them. But they do click with something in his memory- he was expected to come see the god of this hell today, wasn't he? Is that what day it is? What day _is it_? Alarmed, he reaches for his phone, but of course, there have been no new developments that would cause it to suddenly and miraculously be back in his pocket where it belongs.

And what _was it_ that would necessitate him to see Mr. Johnson in the first place? Is it the meeting regarding the relaxation vault trials, is he just thinking ahead, worrying about something that isn't supposed to happen yet? It wouldn't be the first time. Or is there something he should be doing up there, something else pertaining to his work?

He feels lost in this place that has so long been so familiar to him, as out of place and cornered as an animal in the city, doomed to wander until he either finds his way out or ends up as roadkill. ...God, when did he start thinking so morbidly?

Could there just be one sign of life? There doesn't seem to be anybody in the residential wing, at least not awake and in Wheatley's path. Maybe it's because everybody is up working, or maybe it's just the timing. Maybe it really is that he's alone in this facility... that's the drugs talking.

Wheatley shudders at the prospect. He suddenly wishes he would run into someone, anyone that would make him feel less paranoid and alone. At this point, he can't even tell if he's on a comedown or just a bad high. It's somewhere in between.

He walks with purpose he doesn't have, away from his office and the residential wing. Without a particular commitment to the destination, he has angled himself towards Mr. Johnson's office.

There comes at last a broad figure in a lab coat with back turned to Wheatley, leaning against the wall with chestnut hair bound in a loose, messy ponytail that's begun to come loose. A figure that looks burdened by the centuries, carrying on the motif of the ancient civilization, the last survivor of his kind, the desperate and alone in a world that he does not belong to any longer.

Wheatley feels a sharp twinge of relief, but at the same time it somehow makes him more afraid, as if this phantom is only a figment of his mind, a hallucination built of the dust and bones of whatever used to live here. His mind is getting out of hand, and on some level he knows he's freaking out, but he can't quite bring it under control. Without words, he reaches out and touches the other man's shoulder, and is almost physically shaken with relief to have his hand meet a solid, very much real surface to touch.

The living phantom gasps, and his shoulders jerk reflexively. He turns to look at Wheatley, and his handsome features pale slightly at the sight of him. Those features were tanned once, a ruddiness to those cheeks existed once that has been long drained by the lack of sunlight and warmth that Aperture has forced upon it.

Yet, nothing could take the will or the brightness out of those green eyes, green like the fields of grass that surely still exist somewhere far above here. There is so much in those eyes, so much emotion, so much life, that widen at the sight of Wheatley.

"Oh," the survivor breathes. " _Wheats_."

Heat rushes to Wheatley's face. He could not say if color accompanies it, for suddenly he feels as though he is the phantom, and the survivor before him is the one who is living and breathing. His heart is pounding in his chest, but that's not actually proof that he's alive.

"Rick," he says. The word is an enormous effort, so loud that it echoes down the whole hall, yet so quiet he can barely hear it as it falls from his mouth.

"Are you... how're you feeling?" Rick asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He looks afraid— no, _wary_ , cautious. He looks like he doesn't know who he's speaking to, even though his eyes brighten for him, his hands clench and unclench, he shifts his weight off of the wall.

Wheatley doesn't know how to answer that question. He doesn't know how to talk, let alone how he's feeling- he presses his lips together, in a thin line, and wonders briefly if he looks as desperately alone as he feels. Probably not, he thinks foolishly. In answer, he shrugs, and he signs instead of speaks. _Same as ever, I suppose._

Rick glances at Wheatley's hands. He takes a deep breath and releases it very slowly, shaking his head from side to side. He looks so tense, like one loud sound would be all it would take to trigger his fight or flight response, sending him running or furiously swinging punches.

"You're all done _relaxin_ '?" he asks, rubbing lightly at his temple, where brown hair and sweat have come to mingle and stick to the skin.

Funny, Wheatley feels the same way. Is it smart for him and Rick to even be in proximity, as high strung as they are? He doesn't know. When was the last time he did something smart, anyway? He feels a bitter sort of humor. But the humor dries up quickly at Rick's question.

 _You're all done being a prick?_ He signs, frowning harshly in accompaniment with the words. It doesn't occur to him that the other man probably doesn't know that sign, just like he didn't know what the _X_ meant.

"Done being... what?" Rick asks, his voice a little thinner, not so much soft now as quiet and strained. He doesn't look particularly moved by the question, although his fingers on his face have stopped moving as if frozen. He looks like he's just run a marathon in a lab coat.

 _Forget it._ Annoyed, Wheatley makes a dismissive wave of his hand. He feels like it would only take the slightest infraction to send him over the edge, into another fury. Maybe now isn't the time isn't for that. _Where's Chell?_

Rick lowers his hand. A change comes over him, the tension pouring out onto the ground around him as shame and heaviness overtake his features and rewrite his expression. His shoulders slope, his brows knit, his green, green eyes find something else to look at.

This alarms Wheatley, to the point that speech is frightened back into him. His voice is rough. "Rick? Where is Chell?"

Rick looks so tired as he lowers his head, turning it just so. "She's workin'. I can't see her right now."

"Working." The word is flat, heavy with implications. She wouldn't be off-limits to Rick if she was just doing caretaking work. "Where is she working at?"

Rick licks his lips, which look a little chapped. He shakes his head. "Look, it's not a good idea to talk about this right now, a'right? You're still not feeling your best, by th' look of things."

"Did she get picked for the testing initiative?" He asks bluntly, not at all dissuaded by Rick's attempt at sidestepping the question. "What's she testing?"

Rick shifts his weight again and runs a hand through his hair. Does he _ever_ stop fidgeting or what? Is this just something Wheatley hasn't noticed before, or has he simply never seen him this _anxious_ before?

"Th' AHPD." he confesses with a heaviness that makes the initials land with a thud.

"Goddamn it all." Wheatley's voice is low and dangerous, and Rick's fidgeting is honestly only making him angrier. At least she hasn't been picked for the gel testing, or, God forbid, the GLaDOS project, but he can't find it in him to be grateful. "Of course it would be _your_ team's work, wouldn't it? Why aren't you allowed to see her? Who's with her? _Where is she_?"

"Yeah, it figures, yeah..." Rick replies reluctantly. His voice still sounds thin, and carries on avoiding Wheatley's gaze. "GLaDOS is with her, I think Arachne is too, they were on one of the new tracks but they're finishing up and they're insisting that th' team don't interfere with the test subject. Something about tampering with th' results. I've never heard that shit before." He wrinkles his nose with distaste, a little more energy to him as he imparts this.

"GLaDOS? GLaDOS is with her personally?" Wheatley's eyes are absolutely lit up by this point, sharp blue and full of violence. He looks like he could punch Rick. He feels like it, too. He has never felt less like himself, but there is one familiar impulse in there- the need to protect his twin sister. "And where were you for this? You can come harass me but you can't make sure Chell doesn't get made into Aperture's next _plaything_ by the second most powerful person in this place?"

Rick swallows, which can't be heard but it's apparent from the way his Adam's apple bobs. His nostrils flare briefly, and he clenches both his hands into fists. "There was nothing I could do. Time I got back she'd already left Paris, and she must've gotten picked up from there. I've tried to intervene, but it's like I told you, they're not lettin' us near 'er all the sudden. I know I shoulda been with 'er. I know I've messed up. I know..."

"You shouldn't have left her in the first place!" Wheatley says, taking a step closer to Rick. He wants to run off and find her, but with hundreds of testing tracks in the facility, and easily two dozen dedicated to the Aperture Handheld Portal Device alone, he'd have no prayer to be able to find her- and that's not even mentioning the fact that his clearance wouldn't get him anywhere _near_ somebody that GLaDOS had decreed off-limits. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinkin' that Neil and Paris had it covered and I needed to check on somethin' else," Rick confesses, lifting his eyes to meet Wheatley's at last. He sounds deflated. Where is that ego of his?

It makes Wheatley all the angrier that Rick should be so bold as to look him in the eye, yet it also made him angry that he avoided his gaze. Rick's passiveness makes Wheatley angry, but if he rose to the challenge that's been offered, it would no doubt push the caretaker to violence. His very presence is making things worse, but so would trying to leave. The air is sharp with the determined contradiction that is Wheatley's rising temper.

"What made you think _those two_ could cover anything?" Wheatley demands. "Especially anything as important as this?"

"I don't know as _anything_ could've kept Chell from meetin' up with GLaDOS again," Rick answers lamely. "But I guess I didn't think she'd run off on 'em. But I should've known, she's stubborn like... she's stubborn."

Wheatley narrows his eyes, but doesn't contest the extremely weak save- he has more important things on his mind. "How are we going to find her, then?"

"I'll work it out," Rick answers, more firmly than anything he's said during this conversation. There's almost a spark in his eyes, a renewal of the life initially seen in them. "They can't keep me out of my own test chambers forever. And if I have to, I'll go and talk t' GLaDOS myself. I'm gonna fix this."

"Wrong. You mean _we_ ," Wheatley says, lifting his chin. "I've got to find her before she ends up hurt, like every other poor bastard that ends up testing in this facility."

Rick looks worriedly up at him. "Wheatley, your security clearance isn't high enough, you won't be able to come with me. 'Sides that, you still gotta recover. Please, I gotta make this right for you two. I have a promise I need to uphold."

He reaches towards him. It almost looks like he will touch him.

Wheatley recoils from the touch, suddenly almost afraid of the contact. He doesn't know what reaction it will spark in him. "Recover from _what_? I'm perfectly fine, and as long as I stay with you, my clearance doesn't matter because we can just use yours. I'm not just going to sit around while Chell is in danger!"

Rick draws back his hand and shoves both of his hands into his pockets. His cheeks take on a bit of colour (their original?), and he coughs. "She's not in any... immediate danger. But she can't leave, and that's a problem. I really don't know if you'll be able to come with me, what'll you do if they tell you to stay behind?"

"I..." Wheatley feels his own face grow similarly hot. "I don't know. But I do know that it is my responsibility to take care of her, not yours. It's my job to keep her safe, that's all there is to it."

Rick's breath can be heard as he inhales heavily, the sound of that life circulating and continuing in his sturdy body. He's frowning slightly, and his presence makes him look even bigger than he is, so that he seems, in the moment, taller even than Wheatley.

"You can't go off if I take you with me and they tell you that you can't go through," he tells him firmly. "The way that you're feelin' right now, with the meth, you're pretty volatile. I don't want you put at risk because of it. You or her."

Wheatley snarls, bares his teeth like an animal about to attack- no longer the prey in the desolate hallways of this horrible place, but the predator, for a single moment just as much a killer as Aperture around him.

But he doesn't raise a hand, merely looks away, body tense as he turns over Rick's words and his own answer. "And what if you screw it up and get her killed? What then?"

"That's not going to happen," Rick says, his voice snapping to its normal volume so suddenly that at first it almost sounds like yelling. "I'll die before I let anything else happen to either of you."

Somehow, it really hurts to hear Rick say that, and Wheatley flinches in response. "Don't- stop worrying about me. Only Chell is important now."

Rick shakes his head. "I'm not leaving either of you, I've already made up my mind. Come Hell or high water."

"Stop it!" Wheatley demands, almost shaken by the force of emotion that follows. Rick's pledge shakes him, takes him back from fight to flight. So many people are being dragged down by him. "Just knock it off! Alright? I don't need you trying to look out for me! I _want_ you to leave me alone!"

This is met by the most solemn expression that must have ever graced Rick's face, accentuated by the sweat and the hair that clings to it in strands. He looks like he is taking a chivalrous vow. "I _can't_ leave you alone. I'm not gonna try."

"Of course, right, because you've taken it upon yourself to be my babysitter for whatever reason," Wheatley hisses venomously. "Go find Chell, then. If you think I can't take care of myself, you can go by yourself, and come find me when you get back."

The scientist is taken aback. "I... That's not what I'm saying at all! Don't you get that? I want to help you two escape! I messed up, you told me that yourself, and all I want is to set it right. Just, please, let me do that. Let me fix it."

"Nobody around here listens to anything I say, do they?" Wheatley says, throwing his arms wide. It would be melodramatic if it wasn't for the sheer, horrible emotion behind it. "You said you're going to go help Chell, right? That is the _only thing_ you can do that will be of any use to me!"

There is a crack that can almost be heard, which starts in Rick's chest and runs all throughout his body. Its effects can be seen when it moves over his face, and he can't hold the emotions in that seep out through it. And the next thing Wheatley knows that stupid cowboy of a scientist is shaking, his hands falling from his pockets to hang limply by his sides. His eyes are wide, and they are so bright. They are so wet.

Wheatley stalls. He has never, as long as he has known Rick, seen him cry. Or even the promise, the _possibility_ of crying within Rick. The anger within him stalls, too, leaving him uncertain how he should even be feeling. His mind is thick, wrong, not his own, but he shouldn't have said that, should he have?

...Should he?

He clenches his fists, looks away, hot all over with emotion. "Just go on, why don't you?"

"You got it," Rick says, quickly turning his back on him. Wheatley doesn't get to see the tears but he can _hear_ them, thick in the other man's voice. Rick doesn't give any indication that they're there, his hands not wiping at his face but remaining at his sides.

He hesitates, but ultimately, Wheatley turns away from Rick, the anxiety in his throat thicker than ever, and now coupled with all the loathing he can muster- and he doesn't even know if it is directed at the other man or at himself.

With every step he takes away, Rick picks up speed, until he is nearly at a run. The sound of his shoes can be heard getting faster, heavier, and further away, until at last it is gone— and the survivor has vanished just like every other trace of his kind.

* * *

Aperture is so big, and so, so empty. Yes, that's because anybody who is in the residential sector has bedded down for the night, and thick walls insulate the nearby testing tracks, but it still feels like the whole facility has made itself empty for Rick, clearing out in respect for his pain and grief. Just like Wheatley before him, he is almost totally directionless, except the singular notion of a person he needs to reach, and he is moving for what feels like quite some time before he meets someone.

Rick curses softly under his breath and pauses to wipe off his face with his palms. He had wandered so thoughtlessly in his distress that he almost hadn't realized he'd left the residential sector already and crossed over into the testing shaft.

The individual ahead of him is a young woman, and through tear-blurred eyes she might have been Chell, but that would have been too easy. This young woman is wearing more casual clothes, giving the appearance of having visited the testing tracks on her downtime for whatever reason. She lifts her head as she hears Rick coming closer, visibly interested.

"Virgil?" She asks, moving towards him. "That you, darlin'?"

He swallows down the tears, broken pieces of his pride, the love that has been choking him since he left the residential sector and nods back his head like nothing is wrong.

"Sorry, darlin', not Virgil. Hope Rick'll do," he answers, giving her a cheeky wink and a smile amid stained cheeks and smeared skin.

"Oh," Mel says, and for a moment her face falls just a bit. Then she smiles anyway, and she comes closer, only for her expression to transform yet again as she sees what state he's in. "Rick, my goodness, what happened? Are you alright?"

Rick shrugs to keep from wincing. He didn't realize that it was so obvious, but he didn't think to look for a bathroom between there and here. He might have decided, on getting anywhere near GLaDOS, that he ought to make himself look presentable, but as proud as he always has been, he's been slipping today.

"Oh, yeah, I'm right as rain!" he tells Mel brightly. "Right as rain." And as beat down as a wet stray.

Mel comes still a few steps nearer to him, and her brow furrows in clear concern as she comes within arm's reach. Her makeup is done, despite the lateness of the evening; she has not been crying. "I'd say you look like a kicked dog, but I think the dog would look less pitiful. What happened?"

Rick shakes his head. "Nothing happened, I'm fine," he answers gruffly. "I've just been workin' too hard, that's all."

"You're a bad liar, Rick Venture," she says, not harshly. "Just let me know if there's somethin' I can do, alright?"

"You could get me a coffee or a bear to wrestle," he answers her with another shrug, noncommittal and even. A drop of something clear falls off of his beard. "Or, failin' that, you could tell me where I might find GLaDOS?"

"I can definitely help with the coffee. But GLaDOS?" She asks, a bit taken aback by the question. "I mean, I think so, but why do you need to find her?"

Rick draws on her reaction to fuel himself, remind himself that he is strong and he does things that surprise others. He has to remember who he is, what he is, and push out his broad chest accordingly. "Need to talk to her about somethin'. Nothing to worry about."

Mel purses her lips, considering this. She looks like she wants to press the issue, but she doesn't, at least not now. "She's holed up in one of the testing tracks right now, but I can take you there. Let's stop and grab that coffee first, though, sound alright?"

"Sounds like a plan. Lead the way, pretty lady," Rick answers, gesturing with a sweep outward.

At this, she smiles, seemingly relieved to see a little more of his usual spunk. She gives his shoulder a friendly swat and falls in step with him, her voice taking on a teasing tone. "Why, Rick, I am a happily committed woman."

"Nobody said you weren't!" Rick answers, forcing energy into the answer, like he's putting on a show where he plays the role of Rick Venture.

His performance must be convincing, for she laughs lightly. "Speaking of which, have you run into Virgil this evening?"

"I'm afraid I haven't," Rick tells her as they walk, relieved by her easy acceptance. "But I'm sure your missing man can't be far. Knowing him, he's probably back on his floor pulling voluntary overtime."

"He better not be," she says, shaking her head in affectionate exasperation. She moves easily to the new subject- though knowing Mel, this does not necessarily mean she's forgotten the old one. "We had a special dinner planned. I have somethin' important to tell him. I kind of figured he got held up by something; that happens so often in this place."

"Oho, news to share? Care to let me in on the secret?" Rick asks smoothly, leaning towards her.

Mel smiles at him conspiratorially. "You never met a secret you didn't want in on, did you?"

Rick's grin widens until it shows teeth. It feels more like him, looks more like him. He loves a good story; always has. One might go so far as to accuse him of being a gossip, if one didn't know any better. "Nope, can't say as I have."

"You almost make me want to tell you," she says, pushing open the door to the break room for their coffee stop. "Maybe if I did, it'd cheer you up a little. I know you like being in on things."

Rick takes the door and pushes it open further over her head, gesturing for her to go on ahead. "You kiddin' me? I love bein' in on the loop."

Mel dips in thanks and steps in ahead of him. "Tell you what- you tell me why you're lookin' for GLaDOS, and I'll tell you what the secret is."

"Well... guess you could say I needed to see her about a test." Rick says as he follows her in, letting the door close behind him.

"A test?" Mel presses, looking over her shoulder at him rather than at what she's doing as she pours out the cold remains in the staff room coffee pot, and puts on some fresh.

"Yeah, a test," he answers, reaching back and pulling the band out of his hair before shaking it out and fluffing it with his hands. It leaves his hair looking bushy, like a lion's mane. "That's why she's in a test shaft, right?"

With a shift of his thumb, the hairband rolls naturally down his palm, and ends up around his wrist like a thin, woven green bracelet.

"Course. But what kind of test do _you_ need to ask her about?" She leans her hip against the counter as the coffee brews. "Personally, I kinda avoid her."

"Yeah, I don't know... she's a cold one, that's for sure," Rick brushes his fingers through his hair a few times. It doesn't help much. "I don't let it bother me none, though."

Mel pulls her purse down from her shoulder and rifles in it for a moment, before withdrawing a comb, which she offers to him. "You're avoiding my question. Do you plan on being straightforward with me at all?"

He accepts the comb with a nod and murmured thanks, setting it to work at once attempting to tame that mane of his. "There's only so much I can say about it, really," he replies as he carries on this battle with his hair, "I need to see GLaDOS about a test."

"So that's a no," she says, raising her eyebrows. "Startin' to feel like I'm not the only one keeping a secret here."

"This'd be goin' better if I weren't so damn sweaty," Rick comments evasivey.

"Uh-huh." For a minute she doesn't say anything else, as she gets two styrofoam cups and fills them, outfits each with a lid and a spoon, and almost overfills her own with creamer. "Can't help you with the hair, but a makeup towel will fix your face right up, if you want it."

"I'd appreciate it," the scientist answers, the words almost a sigh. "I've been runnin' all over creation today. Been a helluvan afternoon, I tell you what."

"Sounds like it," Mel says sympathetically, withdrawing a packet of makeup wipes from her purse. Luckily enough, she keeps almost everything in there. "Here you go."

Rick gives his hair a few more strokes with the comb, working out a small tangle (with some wincing) before he hands it back in exchange for the wipe. He gives a huff as he quickly, roughly wipes his face with it, finding himself hanging his hopes on it as if it could remove all the sweat and tear stains on his skin— as if this little piece of cotton could cleanse him until he is no longer tainted by desires deemed dirty and unsavory by the very person who instilled them in him.

After some long moments, she touches his arm. Maybe he's betrayed too much with his movements, or his expression, but she rubs his shoulder in a comforting gesture, and doesn't say a word until he's done.

When she does, it's only, "drink some coffee- it'll help."

It's embarrassing, thinking she's read his mind. He doesn't address it, though, only throws out the towelette and takes the coffee she's prepared for him. The heat and bitterness of the fresh staff room coffee helps to center him a little bit, although he's still left with the sting of Mel knowing maybe too much.

He downs it pretty fast.

Mel takes a slow sip of hers, thoughtful in comparison, watching him as if she's reading him. It's hard to tell how much she's picking up, which makes it worse. But she knows, plainly, that something very bad has affected him.

"It's not right, seeing you so worked up," she says finally. "I hope GLaDOS can fix it, whatever's wrong."

"I hope so, too," Rick says, his voice a little thick from the coffee. He wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb and wonders how much she has figured out.

"Come on, hon. Maybe we'll run into Virgil along the way," Mel says, gently steering him back towards the door. Clearly hoping to help put a little energy back into him, she adds, "and I think I promised to tell you my news, too, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did." The reminder does help liven him up a little, or at the very least it distracts him from worrying about what Mel's thinking about him. He holds the door for her again, and then as soon as they're out of the staff room again he pulls the hairband from around his wrist and starts to gather his hair back into its ponytail. "So what's the news? Is there a big scandal?"

"Is that really the first place your mind goes? Scandal?" She laughs fondly. "That would be fun, wouldn't it? Sure, why don't you take a guess?"

If only there were just some scandal afoot, some miscalculation, somebody getting fired or some unfortunate romantic affair that could be the most pressing thing going on down here in Aperture. Rick would love to be distracted by something so meaningless as a scandal. "How 'bout... somebody got overheard praising Black Mesa?"

"Oh my!" Mel looks properly aghast, though she wants to laugh so much that it's clearly a little difficult to maintain. Then she develops a mischievous, conspiratory look, glancing back and forth before leaning closer. "You know, they aren't that bad."

Rick gasps with affected shock and touches his chest. "Mel! You better watch yerself with that kinda talk."

"I'm not sorry! I'm a rebel," she says proudly, puffing out her chest and thumping it with the flat of her hand.

Rick gives Mel a little push on the arm and a bark of laughter. Cleaning off has done him some good, at least. It's left him feeling a little bit livelier, a little more genuine in the role of himself. "Right! A rebel, that's my kinda gal!"

"That's right! I never met a rule I couldn't break," she confirms, eyes sparkling. "But lemme tell you what's going on really. And you gotta keep this between just us, right? I know you sometimes have a hard time keeping things private."

The scientist straightens up, holds up his left hand and traces a quick, sloppy cross over himself with his right. It's something he picked up in his schoolboy days. Some things never wear off no matter how many years go by and how many rains they bring. "I swear, I won't tell a soul."

"Good," she says, and she tells him.


End file.
